


I, Your Glass

by koppelkat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abused Harry Potter, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, But He Gets Better, Canon Compliant, Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Good Severus Snape, Guardian Severus Snape, Harry Potter Gets a Hug, Harry Potter Has PTSD, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mentor Severus Snape, No Slash, Not Britpicked, Occlumency (Harry Potter), Protective Severus Snape, Severus Snape Being a Bastard, Severus Snape Has a Heart, Shell Cottage (Harry Potter), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:07:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28872054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koppelkat/pseuds/koppelkat
Summary: The summer after Harry's fourth year has become the worst of his life. The haunting memories of Cedric's death and Voldemort's revival were terrible enough on their own, but then came the strange visions of Death Eaters, the phantom pain in his scar, and the uncontrollable emotions that don't feel like his own. After fleeing Privet Drive, he finds himself stuck in an isolated cottage with his most hated professor: Severus Snape.---Snape mentors Harry, no slash.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape
Comments: 67
Kudos: 338





	1. Strange Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> "And since you know you cannot see yourself  
> So well as by reflection, I, your glass,  
> Will modestly discover to yourself  
> That of yourself which you yet know not of."
> 
> \- 'Julius Caesar', William Shakespeare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is haunted by memories, nightmares, and visions.

###  **Chapter 1: Strange Dreams**

Harry ran a clammy, trembling palm over his eyes, trying to slow his thundering heart and calm his shallow, erratic breathing. For several long minutes, he lay still and listened to the quiet sounds of midnight on Privet Drive.

He could hear Uncle Vernon snoring noisily from the bedroom down the hall, and a heavy creak that could only be Dudley rolling over in his bed. Outside, crickets chirped a low melody and a gentle breeze rustled the trees along the road. A whisper of the breeze drifted through his open window and the curtains swayed with a soft shushing sound.

There were no shouted incantations or crackling spells. No stalking footsteps. No maniacal laughter. No screams.

Harry pressed his palms firmly into his eyes with a groan, as if that could suppress the images that still lingered vividly in his mind. 

It had been another nightmare. 

In truth, although summer break had only begun a week ago, his entire life since returning to Privet Drive for the summer had felt like one long nightmare. His days were filled with endless back-breaking chores, snide insults from his aunt, and shouted threats from his uncle that were occasionally empty but more often were not. And on the few days that Aunt Petunia shooed him out of the house, preferring to clean things herself than deal with him ‘wasting my cleaning supplies on your miserable attempts’ as she put it, Dudley and his gang dogged his every footstep. Their taunts and cuffs ensured Harry found no reprieve, no matter where he wandered. Even so, the days were still magnitudes better than the nights.

On a good night, Harry would be too exhausted to either sleep or dream, and would simply toss and turn restlessly until dawn. On a bad night, like tonight, he would dream of that night in the graveyard, trapped in a loop in which he knew the ending, but was powerless to do anything about it.

Although it had been about two weeks since the end of the Triwizard Tournament and that terrible night in the graveyard, the memories still felt as fresh in his mind as if it had happened only hours ago. Each sight, sound, and sensation seemed to only grow more vivid each night, as if the nightmares were searing their details more firmly into his memory with every iteration.

He could still feel the dirt of the graveyard under his fingernails as he and Cedric tumbled onto the ground, the Cup falling from their hands. He could hear the low murmur of Cedric’s voice, quietly urging him to take out his wand. He could see the flash of violent green light and that last spark of confused terror in Cedric’s eyes, and then hear the muffled thud as his body crumpled to the ground. He could smell the burnt ozone scent that the Killing Curse seemed to leave hanging in the air, a smell that singed his nostrils. He could feel the damp cold of the gravestone pressed against his back, and then a sharp pain as Wormtail drew the silver dagger along his arm. And then… the blaze of agony, lancing through his head as if it were pierced by a thousand needles, as Voldemort emerged from the cauldron and locked eyes with him-

Harry sat up with a jolt, firmly slapping his cheeks to stave off the fresh wave of panic that threatened to flood through his body.

_No!_ He wasn’t in the graveyard anymore. He was _here_ , in Privet Drive. Voldemort and his Death Eaters weren’t here. He wasn’t in danger. He was safe.

Well…

He slowly ran a hand through his hair with a bitter snort. He was safe from _Voldemort_ , at least. The Dursleys didn’t exactly provide what he would describe as a “safe” home, not when Aunt Petunia frequently swung frying pans at his head, or when Dudley and his gang went ‘Harry Hunting’ on boring afternoons, or when Uncle Vernon-

Harry felt another familiar flare of dread as he thought about his uncle, but quickly shook his head to stop _that_ train of thought too. He couldn’t let himself get worked up about it.

No matter what punishments Uncle Vernon doled out, no matter how vicious he became, he would _never_ compare to the gleeful malice and genuine terror that Voldemort so expertly commanded. Compared to the Cruciatus curse, Vernon’s discipline was tame. It was nothing Harry couldn’t handle. 

Harry had endured everything in that graveyard and managed to emerge in one piece… if staying here with the Dursleys was necessary for keeping him safe from _that_ … well, then he could endure this too. At least here, no one was trying to _kill_ him. At least here, no one else would suffer or die because of him. And when September finally came… he could go home to Hogwarts and pretend like none of this had happened.

He hunched forward, drawing his knees up against his chest and hugging them tightly. There would be no getting back to sleep tonight. He tried to calm the whirlpool of thoughts in his mind, and suppress the aching nausea in his stomach, as he waited for morning to come.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Over the next few days, Harry’s nightmares gradually worsened. Each time he dreamed of the graveyard and locked eyes with Voldemort, it felt as if the man were physically there in front of him, and the searing pain that he’d only ever experienced in Voldemort’s presence would flare to life. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, and the moment seemed to stretch longer and longer, the pain in Harry’s forehead intensifying til he could barely see straight. Every time, Voldemort would smile and laugh, reveling in Harry’s distress until he was jolted awake, forehead still burning and heart still pounding.

Harry’s body would ache and twinge all day, as if he had been subjected to the Cruciatus Curse overnight. He was no expert on wizard’s dreams (or any kinds of dreams, for that matter), but part of him wondered if it _were_ possible to be cursed through a dream… Was the mind capable of wrecking so much havoc on a body on its own, or was there actually a spell involved? _Was_ Voldemort torturing him in his sleep, or was it just phantom remembrances of the pain he had already experienced? He couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t really matter. Either way, there was nothing much to be done about it. It’s not like he could just shut off his dreams at will, or block Voldemort from inflicting this torment on him from a distance if it _was_ him.

All he could do was just endure it... Just endure it, _quietly_.

Harry had already made that mistake once. 

When the nightmares had first begun, at the very beginning of the summer, he was caught off-guard by them. He hadn’t taken any precautionary measures… it was stupid, in retrospect.

Vernon must have gotten a letter from someone at Hogwarts, or maybe the Weasleys had said something at Kings Cross. In any case, Vernon seemed to know a little of what had transpired at Hogwarts in June. His uncle immediately took him aside once they had returned home, and told him in furious whispers to keep his ‘freaky stories about murderers’ to himself. He ‘didn’t want to hear any boo-hooing’ and Harry being a ‘whining layabout’ would get him more than a few cuffs around the ear.

“It’s about time someone scared you straight”, Vernon had said. “Maybe now you’ll be grateful for the lenient and generous upbringing we’ve given you, and stop acting like a disgraceful hooligan when we don’t bow before you and kiss your feet.”

Harry should have _known_ , from the start, that he’d need to be more careful. He should have known to cram his riotous emotions deeper inside, like he had done every other summer at the Dursleys. Quiet obedience. No crying. No whining. And _absolutely_ no disruptive noises.

But he had been careless. Too overwhelmed to do more than doggedly ignore the constant buzz of his troubled thoughts now that his friends were away, Harry had gone to sleep that night stupidly unprepared.

That first night back at the Dursleys, after falling into a fitful sleep, the nightmare had reared up in his dreaming mind all at once, as if it had been gleefully waiting for this exact moment to strike. Harry writhed in his sleep, quiet moans of distress escaping his lips. And when Voldemort emerged from the cauldron and the true pain had begun, Harry’s sleeping mouth had uttered a bloodcurdling scream.

Vernon had come tearing into his room, more furious than Harry had ever seen him, and he almost wasn’t sure where his nightmare had ended and reality began. With his glasses off and his vision blurred, he thought for an instant that Voldemort had materialized here in his bedroom at Privet Drive. Stuttered, confused pleas fell from his lips before he could stop himself, but the words died in his throat as the blurry shape approached: it looked like a thundering stormcloud topped by an angry red splotch. But realizing that the shape was his Uncle Vernon and not the Dark Lord himself hardly brought relief to Harry. Instead, his racing heart only accelerated.

And then he was hoisted off the floor, the fabric of his shirt bunched in Vernon’s shaking fist.

“WHAT THE HELL DID I TELL YOU, BOY? You’re not a toddler in need of coddling, and if you’re going to cry like one at least have the decency to do it quietly! If you wake us up with your caterwauling one more time, I’ll give you something to _really_ cry about!”

Vernon had shoved Harry roughly back to the floor and stormed out, leaving his shoulder smarting. Harry didn’t bother going back to sleep that night. He lay awake, rubbing his hands along his arms to stave off the relentless cold that seemed to permeate his very soul, and trying to hold back the childish tears that threatened to erupt.

He hadn’t cried at the Dursleys' treatment since he was a child, and he _certainly_ wasn’t going to start now. Not when Vernon had made it abundantly clear how his ‘incessant weeping’ would be received. No, he’d just need to be more careful. He would keep it to himself. He’d keep quiet.

And so the next night, Harry was prepared. His wand had been locked away, of course, but that didn’t rule out Muggle solutions to the problem.

He’d stuffed thick jumpers under the crack in his door and buried himself under as many blankets, pillows, and jackets as he could gather. The heat was unbearable, but he hoped it would do something to dampen any sounds he might make in his sleep.

And most importantly, he steeled himself for whatever dreams might come to him and _swore_ to himself that he wouldn’t cry or scream, no matter how bad they were.

After that first night, Vernon wasn’t woken by Harry’s screams again, even though the nightmares got worse and worse with each successive night. Harry was exhausted, emotionally and physically, but a small part of him was proud of himself. He couldn’t control his nightmares, but he _could_ control himself, and after that first moment of weakness when the nightmares had surprised him, he didn’t cry out again. He was stronger than them. He was strong enough to keep it inside.

And so the days progressed, one bleeding into the next in what felt like a single, never-ending onslaught of fatigue, labor, and solitude.

One night, the nightmares abruptly shifted, the torturous memories of last June replaced by something different. But soon Harry wished he could dream of the graveyard again instead of this new horror.

In these dreams, he would find himself surrounded by Death Eaters, but after an initial moment of panic, he realized they weren’t trying to attack him. In fact, it seemed like he was one of them… perhaps even in _charge_ of them. Together they would glide silently down empty nighttime streets, sometimes paved, sometimes cobbled, sometimes dirt and gravel. Like a low-lying black fog, they would sweep up to darkened houses and burst through the doors with a flurry of Curses and Hexes. Destruction and havoc erupted around him everywhere he looked, and Harry felt… _pleased_. He would try to fight down the nauseating horror that bubbled up at this realization, but couldn’t suppress the strange feeling of elation and satisfaction at what his fellow Death Eaters had wrought.

These dreams always seemed to end the same way, and Harry would feel his dread and disgust growing even as the foreign feeling of glee reached its peak.

People would be dragged before him: pajama-clad and wild-eyed, sometimes crying, or screaming, or kicking, or numbly mute. And then he would raise his hand, sickly white and wielding an all-too-familiar wand, and a voice that sent chills down his spine would murmur: _“Avada Kedavra!”_

Harry would see the flash of terror in their eyes, just like Cedric, and then that bloodcurdling laugh… _Voldemort’s_ laugh, would issue from his own mouth until he awoke in a cold sweat.

After a week of these dreams, Harry felt like he was losing his mind. It was the guilt, he reasoned. He felt guilty over Cedric’s death, rightly so. Wasn’t _he_ the one that encouraged the other boy to take the Cup as well, so they could win together? Wasn’t it his fault that Cedric ended up in that graveyard, and his parents no longer had their beloved son? 

So it only made sense that he was dreaming of actually being Voldemort and killing other innocents with his own hand. They were connected, weren’t they? They weren’t just bound by fate and the twin cores of their wands… Harry’s own blood had been used to return Voldemort to the flesh. He was complicit in Voldemort’s return, and therefore responsible for the many murders the villain had already committed in his newly formed body. If he had only been more clever, if only he hadn’t gotten caught in that stupid trap, Voldemort would still be lurking in shadows, unable to wreck such havoc on the world.

Even though these dreams were just his imagination running wild, surely they were representative of what Voldemort was actually doing. With each dreamed murder, and the confusing joy that accompanied them, Harry felt himself slipping a little further from his sense of reality and sense of self. 

During the day, he felt less like ‘Harry’ too. His moods felt volatile and unpredictable, even to himself. 

Most often he felt numb - that was honestly ideal. He would go about his chores as if in a daze, nodding blankly at Petunia’s shrill commands and muttering quiet apologies to Vernon’s tirades without really hearing them. His emotions would feel far away, but at least that way they didn’t feel so hard to bear.

Worse was when he was suddenly overcome with inexplicable waves of anger. A red haze seemed to come over his vision, and he couldn’t stop himself from lashing out at anything or anyone that crossed his path. Those were the most dangerous days… if he wasn’t careful, that strange anger would provoke him into violent shouting matches with Vernon that never ended well. Harry was still nursing bruises from those encounters.

It therefore came as a great relief when the nature of his dreams shifted once more. Gone were the nightmares of the graveyard or the imagined Death Eater raids. Instead, bizarrely, he found himself waking up in his own bed. As if puppeted by invisible strings, Harry would get up, fully dressed, and put on his glasses. Walking down the stairs, he often found the Dursleys as they would be in reality: Petunia standing at the stove and shouting at him to hurry up, Dudley staring dumbly at the television while he shoveled bacon and eggs into his mouth, and Vernon unfolding a newspaper and waving an empty coffee cup in Harry’s direction expectantly.

But he never responded to them. He would walk straight out the front door and stand in the lawn, looking at the immaculate flower beds and trimmed grass of Number Four, and then turning slowly to gaze up at the street sign. His eyes would fixate there, and as if drawn magnetically to its gleaming metal surface and crisply printed letters:

_PRIVET DRIVE_

These dreams would always end the same way: a smug feeling of satisfaction that, while seemingly innocuous, always left Harry waking with a sense of deep unease.


	2. Retaliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions escalate and Harry flees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence and child abuse.

###  **Chapter 2: Retaliation**

“ **BOY!** What in the _hell_ are you doing?!”

Harry flinched and froze, rapidly trying to figure out what he had done wrong. On instinct, he blurted out, “Sorry, sir,” even though he wasn’t sure yet what he was apologizing for.

Behind him, he could hear the approach of stomping footsteps and turned to see Uncle Vernon’s splotchy purple face swollen with rage.

“Phony apologies aren’t going to fix what you’ve done!” Vernon roared, “You’ve _ruined_ Petunia’s hedges!”

Harry stole a glance back at the hedges he’d been pruning. _Ruined_ …? Okay, he could admit the sides were a bit uneven, but he just couldn’t seem to steady his hands today. ‘Ruined’ was definitely an overstatement; no one was going to come measure the hedges with a level. And he could probably fix it if he trimmed them down a bit more.

He turned back to Vernon, opening his mouth in reply, but clearly his face hadn’t borne an appropriately contrite expression because he abruptly found himself lifted a few inches off the lawn by the front of his shirt.

“Now listen here, boy,” Vernon growled in a low whisper, his face close enough to Harry’s that he could smell the man’s foul breath, “I’m sure you think it’s a funny joke, don’t you, embarrassing us like this. After all we’ve done for you… taking you in when we should have just left you on our porch to starve, putting clothes on your back and food on your plate… And you repay us with this kind of _willful disrespect_ \- making a mess of our hedges for the whole neighborhood to laugh about- like we’re some sort of hooligans- _oh_ no _,_ you won’t get away with that.”

Harry had long since dropped the pruning shears, and clutched desperately at the tightening fabric around his neck. He didn’t dare try to pull Vernon’s hand away or shout back at the man… not when they were outside, in full view of the neighbors. Harry knew precisely how his uncle felt about ‘making a scene’. And so he bit back a retort even as he felt his indignation rising.

As if he too suddenly became aware of the public setting, Vernon’s eyes darted around the street, checking who was watching, and his expression took on a steely calm. He released Harry, who staggered and caught himself as he fell back to the lawn.

“ _Get inside,_ ” Vernon spat, so quietly that Harry barely heard him. “ _Right now_.”

He didn’t need telling twice. Harry ducked his head deferentially and walked swiftly inside. He immediately turned to walk up the stairs, assuming that Vernon would demand he spend the rest of the day there.

‘ _I don’t want to see your freakish face!’_ Harry imagined he would yell. _‘Get in your room and don’t let me hear a_ peep _if you know what’s good for you!’_

It would be a welcome relief, Harry thought with a sigh. He’d barely slept at all last night and was exhausted. Maybe he could rest his eyes for a few hours while the sun was still up… the nightmares always seemed a little more distant by the light of the day. He could actually get some proper sleep - Merlin knew he needed it.

It was a Saturday, and Petunia and his cousin were out for the day on a shopping trip. With them gone and with Vernon in a surly mood, Harry might not be bothered until _evening._ Harry almost let himself feel _happy_ at the thought.

Those hopes were dashed the moment Vernon followed him through the front door and slammed it behind him. He wasted no time in seizing Harry again, this time his meaty fist closing around Harry’s neck as he lifted him and shoved him against the foyer wall.

The wind was knocked out of Harry’s lungs in a rush as his back collided with the wall. He gasped, or tried to, but found that he couldn’t draw a breath. The fingers around his neck were slowly digging in, cutting off his windpipe as Vernon grinned maliciously. Harry’s eyes widened, panic blossoming in his chest.

“We’ve put up with your insubordination for too long,” Vernon snarled, voice still pitched low. “And each year it just seems to get worse. Does nothing get through **your-- thick-- skull?!** ”

These last three words were each punctuated by Vernon slamming Harry’s head against the wall behind him. Black and white spots flickered across Harry’s vision, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the impacts or the lack of oxygen. He tried desperately to plead with Vernon, to mutely apologize, to beg forgiveness, to promise obedience, to promise _anything_ so long as he’d stop… but no sound or whisper of air could get past his throat.

Vernon was still shouting: “Last week you burned Duddie’s breakfast! On Tuesday you left your filthy fingerprints all over the silver you were _supposed_ to be polishing! And today… you _mutilate_ Petunia’s prized hedges when you _know_ the chairman of the Gardening Committee is coming over for dinner tomorrow. Are you determined to make our lives a living hell?! Huh?! Answer me, boy!!”

Darkness was creeping in on the edges of Harry’s vision. He could barely hear Vernon’s tirade over the pounding rush of blood in his ears. He tried to shake his head in answer, but Vernon was jostling him so fiercely he wasn’t sure if the gesture could be distinguished. 

At least Vernon was winding down, Harry thought with relief… His voice was growing quieter. Soon, Harry hoped, he’d get it out of his system and let Harry go, and then he could finally breathe… But slowly, as if through a fog, Harry realized Vernon _wasn’t_ getting quieter… Harry’s senses were fading. Vernon’s voice sounded far away, as if Harry were hearing it through a thick, woolly blanket, and his vision of the foyer was blurring into greyness. 

With a lurch, Harry realized that Vernon might actually kill him.

_No…_ Tears sprung to the corners of his eyes, and even Vernon’s purple face began to blur. _Not like this… Not after I survived_ Voldemort _! Not after-!_

And suddenly Harry found himself in the graveyard. His back wasn’t to a foyer wall, but to the cold, jagged stone of a granite grave. He wasn’t held by Vernon’s fist but by magically conjured restraints. And the muffled voice in his ear wasn’t Vernon’s shouts, but Voldemort’s cackling laughter.

His panic crystallized into terror, and he was overwhelmed with the need to make it all _stop_. The unbearable tightness in his chest seemed to explode outward, electrifying every nerve in his body with white-hot lightning. And then he found himself crashing painfully to the floor and drawing a ragged, blessed breath.

Harry didn’t know how long he lay curled on the floor, carefully breathing past the raw pain in his throat and trying to blink away the haze that still clouded his vision. Other than his own rasping breaths, there was silence. He brought a tentative hand to his neck, and flinched as soon as his fingers brushed the tender flesh. He didn’t want to know what it looked like… but at least, he reasoned, Vernon hadn’t broken his neck, or worse. 

When Harry finally had the presence of mind to wonder why Vernon had stopped, and the strength to raise his head from the floor, the sight that met his eyes sent chills down his spine.

Vernon was crumpled against the opposite wall, head lolling on his chest, limbs splayed unnaturally. Above him, cracks spidered out from a massive crater in the wall, as if something- Vernon’s body, Harry realized with horror- had impacted there with tremendous force.

Harry stumbled to his feet, approaching Vernon with hesitant, creeping steps.

“Unc-” Harry’s voice came out in a dry gasp, and immediately he erupted into painful coughs. After a long minute of wheezing and choking, he glanced up with watery eyes. There was no response from the man.

Harry crept closer still, until he was standing directly in front of Vernon. He prodded the man’s foot with his own. Nothing.

“Uncle Vernon…?” Harry whispered, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. The man wasn’t moving… He couldn’t see any blood or visible injury to his uncle’s prone body, but… His eyes strayed again to the crater on the wall above.

Before he could lose his nerve, Harry leapt forward and pressed a trembling hand to his uncle’s chest. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the drum of his own heartbeat and listen…

For one long moment, Harry feared the worst… but then he felt it. The faint, thready beat of Uncle Vernon’s heart and the slight rising of his chest with labored breaths. Harry’s knees wobbled and he sank to cradle his pounding head in his hands.

_Thank Merlin… I haven’t_ killed _the man…_

Harry didn’t want to imagine what might have happened to him… He’d be sent to Azkaban, surely. Not too long ago he was nearly expelled for an outburst of accidental magic that had turned his Aunt Marge into a human blimp, but if he had actually _killed_ his uncle…

He staggered to his feet.

He hadn’t killed him, but he _had_ attacked him. Accidental or not, Harry had used _magic_ on his uncle. He’d flung him across an entire room, crashed him into a wall, and knocked him unconscious. Hogwarts might actually expel him this time. The Ministry would probably snap his wand. If the Prophet got wind of this, he’d be well and truly labeled as a madman. And Petunia…

He wouldn’t wait to find out. He had to leave, _now_ , before they got back.

A cold sweat began to trickle down Harry’s back. Where could he go…? Privet Drive was no longer a home for him, that was clear: now or ever. But it’s not like he could get to Hogwarts on his own. Besides, he wasn’t even sure if anyone was at the castle over the summer. He was sure the Weasleys would welcome him gladly to the Burrow, but he hadn’t a clue how to reach it, and he couldn’t bring himself to just arrive on their doorstep unannounced in any case.

Where to go… and who would he even be able to ask about it? Ron and Hermione were clearly together somewhere, but had been evasive in their letters at best, unable to tell him what they’d been up to but promising to explain everything later. He wasn’t sure that a letter saying ‘Hey I’ve just violently attacked my uncle and have to leave ASAP - could you tell me where you are so I can come join?’ would be well-received.

Harry was fairly sure that if he told Sirius, the man would come running in an instant. He’d never once doubted his godfather’s dedication and fierce protectiveness, and knew he’d do _anything_ to help Harry if he asked for it… But if he came, what would they do then? Sirius was still a fugitive, but he at least could hide as an Animagus. What would Harry do? He couldn’t live under his Invisibility Cloak forever, and if Harry’s clumsy stealth and lack of a disguise got Sirius caught and returned to Azkaban, he could never live with himself.

_Dumbledore…? No._

Harry put the thought out of his mind as soon as it came to him. The Headmaster had been even more evasive than Ron and Hermione this summer. After the horrific end to the school year, Harry had expected… well, he didn’t know what. A condolence letter? A friendly check-in? Words of comfort or reassurance now that Voldemort was truly back and Harry was in more danger than ever? _Anything_ after what he'd seen and experienced that night. But there had been nothing since he’d disembarked the train at King’s Cross, from Dumbledore or any of the other professors at Hogwarts. 

Besides, Harry thought resignedly, Dumbledore himself had left Harry here with the Dursleys all those years ago. He had established this as Harry’s home, for his own protection… If there was another option, _any_ other option, Harry would have been put there instead of here. No, Dumbledore would find a way to keep Harry here by necessity. Maybe he’d Obliviate Vernon and smooth the whole thing over. But he wouldn’t be able to fix everything before Vernon woke up or before his aunt and cousin came home.

Besides, all of it was a moot point. He had no way to contact anyone from the wizarding world anyway. Hedwig was gone, either still delivering his latest letters to Ron and Hermione or out hunting. At least one of them was allowed freedom, so Harry had encouraged her to spend as much time as possible away from the Dursleys. But now, he somewhat regretted the decision.

He realized, with a heavy feeling, that he was completely alone at Privet Drive, with nowhere to go and no one to ask for help. The fluttering worry in Harry’s heart deepened into bitter despair. Of _course_ he was alone. Wasn’t he always? But he’d always pulled himself through somehow anyway… So he’d just do it again.

He’d get away from Privet Drive. He’d summon the Knight Bus again. And he’d go… he’d go…… somewhere, _anywhere_ , as long as it wasn’t here. He’d figure it out. He had to.

Harry straightened and marched towards his cupboard, filled with a rush of fervent energy. Vernon had locked all his ‘freaky stuff’ in here at the start of the summer. The padlock on the door was still there, but Harry didn’t care. What was a little more rule-breaking and destruction _now_?

Adrenaline was still pulsing through his veins, and- he hoped- some trace of the powerful accidental magic that had freed him from his uncle. Feeling a bit stupid but recklessly hopeful nonetheless, Harry pointed an open palm at the cupboard door.

“ _Open_!” He barked hoarsely, channeling all his frustration, will, and desperation for freedom into the word. With a bang, the door splintered inward.

Shocked but pleased, Harry stepped over the shattered threshold and seized his trunk. If he was going to go on the run, he couldn’t be dragging around a heavy trunk full of books and school robes. No, he’d need to travel light. He grabbed his canvas school bag and dumped its contents on the floor: quills, parchment, old notes, and an assortment of brass instruments clattered to the floor.

Harry felt a flare of warmth and surety when he finally found his wand and wrapped his fingers around its familiar handle. He tucked it carefully into his waistband, hoping he wouldn’t need to use it.

He dug through his belongings and stuffed his Invisibility Cloak in the empty bag, along with a handful of slightly stale treats from Honeydukes. A few spare changes of clothes, some Sickles and Galleons he’d found in the bottom of the trunk, the photo album of his parents, and a quill and some parchment (in case Hedwig did find him) were carefully packed into the bag as well.

And… Harry looked longingly at his Firebolt, briefly weighing the pros and cons of taking it with him. It was conspicuous, that’s for sure. There’s no way he could walk around in Muggle neighborhoods carrying a _broom_ without drawing more than a few strange looks, and even among wizards the Firebolt would draw unwanted attention… But even so, Harry couldn’t bring himself to leave it. If nothing else, he reasoned to himself, it made for a convenient and nearly untraceable mode of transportation. Brooms left no footprints or money-trail, and he doubted any pursuers could match him for speed or maneuverability.

_That settles it,_ he thought, feeling rebellious, _I’m taking it._

Finally, Harry dressed himself in a nondescript baggy hoodie and one of Mrs. Weasley’s voluminous knitted scarves. It was way too hot for the humid summer weather, but it would hide his face and the vibrant bruises he was sure were darkening around his tender throat.

His preparations complete, Harry turned to stand before the front door, Vernon’s still-unmoving body sprawled behind him. He hesitated, the determined fire in his chest suddenly sputtering out and a cold fear creeping in.

This was it… once he stepped over the threshold, he would be a fugitive. There would be no going back. He would need to hide from the Ministry _and_ Voldemort alike, and there would be no one to help him if things went awry. But he had no choice… despite the uncertainties that lay beyond the door…

Harry glanced back a final time at Vernon, his mouth hanging open beneath his bristled mustache, forehead still wrinkled in an expression of fury.

He was _very_ certain what would happen if he stayed, and whatever awaited him out _there_ was better than what Vernon would do to him if Harry was still here when he woke up.

Taking one last bracing breath and tugging the hood low over his face, Harry walked out of Number Four Privet Drive for what he hoped was the last time.


	3. Alleys and Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go from bad to worse as Harry flees Privet Drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence

It was late afternoon when Harry left, verging on evening. He walked quickly down the sidewalk of Privet Drive, one hand clutching his Firebolt and the other clutching the strap of his school bag with a white-knuckled grip.

The conductor of the Knight Bus that Harry had met two years ago, Stan Shunpike, had told him that the Bus would show up for wizards in need. Harry was _definitely_ in need, but he hadn’t the foggiest idea how to get it to show up _faster_. He looked up and down the road… not a single car was in sight, but there were plenty of curious neighbors casting him judgmental looks from their living room windows. 

He must look like a thug to them, Harry thought. Face hidden inside a hoodie, looking over his shoulder like he was expecting trouble, and carrying a strange broom that was all the wrong shape for sweeping. With Harry’s luck, they’d call the police on him. _That_ would be a strange situation to talk himself out of.

_‘No, officer, I’m not up to any trouble, honest. Please don’t look through my bag, if you don’t mind- no I’m not carrying anything dangerous, just a bunch of wizarding trinkets and artifacts you wouldn’t understand! My name and address…? Actually, sir, uh, if you could just lend me an owl…’_

He shook his head. It wouldn’t do to wander around in plain sight while he figured out his next steps. Besides, maybe the Knight Bus didn’t show up if Muggles were watching. 

Harry walked faster, making his way towards Magnolia Crescent. He’d take refuge in the alleyway, calm himself down, and think through his plan. Well… he’d actually _make_ a plan, for starters.

By the time he reached the shelter of the alleyway, dusk had fallen. Harry tucked himself into an inconspicuous alcove crowded by garbage bins. No one would notice him, he hoped, barricaded on either side by rusting metal and heaped refuse.

He carefully propped his Firebolt against a dumpster, making sure the aerodynamic bristles and smoothly polished handle weren’t touching anything too mucky or smelly. Then he sank to a seat on the ground, dropped his face into his hands, and took his first real breath since Vernon had shouted at him from across the lawn.

What the _hell_ was he going to do? It was a question he still had no answer to. As the adrenaline faded, he could feel every nerve in his body jangling uneasily. _What the hell was he going to do??_

“Okay,” Harry breathed, trying to talk over the swarm of thoughts jostling for position in his head. Somehow it was easier to work through things rationally, one step at a time, when he said them outloud. He could pretend he was discussing ideas with a trusted ally instead of just muttering to himself in an alleyway, _this close_ to dissolving into full-blown panic.

“ _Okay_ , I have enough money to afford a room somewhere tonight. So… that’s not a problem, at least. I shouldn’t sleep out of doors - that’s just asking for trouble. The Knight Bus would be good since it’s on the move - it would be harder for someone to find me there than if I’m staying put in one place. But maybe they’d look for me there first, since that’s where I went last time I ran off…”

He ran an agitated hand through his mess of black hair.

“Alright, no _staying_ on the Knight Bus, but I’ll at least take it to… well it will have to be Diagon Alley, won’t it. I haven’t got any Muggle money, and Merlin knows there aren’t any wizarding inns in _Little Whinging_ … Tom’ll recognize me at the Leaky Cauldron, but... “

Harry wracked his brains… _were_ there other inns in Diagon Alley? He couldn’t think of any. After spending so many weeks there two years ago, he knew almost all of the shops, restaurants, and businesses, and he couldn’t remember ever seeing other accommodations for travelers.

Well. Scratch that. No Diagon Alley.

The panic started to creep up within Harry again and he forced it back down, a bitter taste like bile rising in his throat. The sun had fully set. Petunia and Dudley would be back by now. They’d have found Vernon out cold and the cupboard blown open. Without a doubt they'd have called the police. They’d be looking for him, and he was _still here_ , barely a few blocks away. Any scent-tracking dog could find him in five minutes, not that it took a special nose or genius brain to find a teenager hiding in an alley.

He lurched to his feet, nervously clutching the strap of his bag and tugging at the hood of his jacket. He had to get moving again. There wasn’t time to stop and plan - he’d have to think on the move.

Just as he adjusted his bag on his shoulders and reached for his broom, Harry heard a set of voices at the mouth of the alley. Two voices, males, adults. They were talking quietly and approaching, and whether or not they had seen Harry yet, they certainly would soon. In the narrow alley, darkened by the oncoming dusk but lit by a scattering of streetlamps, he wouldn’t be able to leave without them noticing.

His fingers itched, one hand drifting towards the wand in his jeans pocket. 

If they were just passersby, he’d calmly walk past them until he reached the end of the alley and then slip into the darkness of the park.

If they were police, he’d have to make a break for it.

If they were from the Ministry, he’d have to hope he could disarm them before they hexed him.

He turned.

His stomach plummeted. It was worse than anything he had anticipated.

Strolling down the alleyway towards him, casual as you please, were Lucius Malfoy and Walden Macnair. As Harry lifted his eyes to them, Lucius’ face split in an icy grin. He did not, to Harry’s great discomfort, look at all surprised to see him. He continued striding forward, voice smooth and entirely too pleased.

“Well, well, well. If it isn't Mr. Potter. Now, what might you be doing here, all alone and away from the safety of your loving home?”

Harry didn’t answer. He was rapidly weighing the pros and cons of running versus launching an immediate attack. There was no scenario in which Lucius and Macnair were here to have a friendly chat - they had both been at the graveyard. He knew where their allegiances lay.

If he ran, he’d be turning his back to them. A poor tactical decision in a narrow alley with nowhere to duck for cover. If he fired off a spell quickly enough, he could maybe disarm or disable one of them before they had a chance to react, but he couldn’t get _both_ of them.

If he could grab his broom and fly upwards fast enough, maybe he’d be able to escape them... That seemed like the only option.

Hands slick with sweat, eyes never leaving Lucius, Harry leaned slowly back towards the dumpster, lifting one arm towards the Firebolt…

Lucius’ eyes narrowed, and his wand whipped towards Harry with snake-like speed.

“ _Petrificus Totalus_!”

But Harry’s reflexes were faster. He raised his own wand and shouted: “ _Prot-_ ”

But he couldn’t complete the shield spell. His throat, raw and aching, choked on the word. A blast of ice-cold energy collided with Harry’s chest, and his arms and legs snapped together like magnets. He fell face-first onto the concrete, his wand tumbling from his fingers.

Lucius closed the remaining distance at his same leisurely pace, and in a few moments his gleaming black leather boots were directly in front of Harry’s face.

Every instinct in Harry screamed at him to run, to fight, to do _something_ , but his frantic mental commands did nothing to move his frozen body. He couldn’t even wiggle a single toe.

A hand snaked into his hair and gathered his unruly locks in a fist, yanking him upright painfully. It must have been Macnair: Harry found himself facing Lucius, who stood with both hands folded on his snake-head cane.

He looked at Harry with feigned disappointment and clear malicious gloating, clicking his tongue as if at a misbehaving child. Harry tried to growl back, or bare his teeth, or at least _glare_ , but every muscle in his body was locked in place. He hoped his expression had frozen into something suitably angry, and not a stupid look of dumb shock.

“Mr. Potter…” Lucius purred, “I can’t say I’m terribly impressed. After all the stories about you, I thought it would take a bit more than a single spell to defeat you. I admit you’ve had a string of completely inept Defense teachers at Hogwarts these past few years, but I thought that that mangy werewolf friend of your father’s would have at _least_ taught you how to cast a shield.”

In his mind, Harry raged. He could have wiped the floor with Lucius if given the proper chance. He’d fought off _Voldemort_ _himself_ not too long ago! And although the petty insults against Lupin were nothing new, they always rankled Harry. Lupin was the best Defense professor they had ever had, and he’d taught Harry more than the rest of them combined.

But Harry couldn’t say any of that. He just stared mutely, trying to project every ounce of hatred and defiance he felt into his eyes.

Beneath the anger, he felt a tiny crack of fear, widening slowly into something more dangerous… but he planned to ignore that. There wasn’t time for fear now. He needed to think quickly and carefully. There had to be an opening. There had to be a way out of this.

Lucius’ hand snapped out and seized Harry’s face, the man’s bony fingers squeezing painfully against his jaw.

“And you’re as stupid as you are useless. We’ve been looking for you, Potter, and as luck should have it, you serve yourself up on a silver platter. The Dark Lord will be _so_ very pleased to see you again.”

Harry’s mind whirled. He was going to be taken to Voldemort…

_No, not again…  
_

Where was Sirius? Hadn’t Sirius said he’d be keeping an eye on Harry this summer? As Padfoot, his nose and ears would find Harry in an instant. Where was Dumbledore, or even the Ministry? He hadn’t finished casting his shield spell, but maybe that spark of magic had been enough to alert The Trace. Last time he had supposedly cast underage magic, the response had been almost instantaneous. After all the fuss he’d caused, they’d probably send an actual Ministry representative rather than just an owl… right?

He’d been so full of bravado and panic when he’d left the Dursleys, so willing to risk this very danger, and now he wanted to take it all back. He couldn’t face Voldemort again, he realized with a flash of shame, not after seeing him in his dreams nearly every night for weeks. The sudden reality of it was so much worse than the vague possibility, and he found himself asking himself _why_ he had been _so stupid_.

But as before, Harry couldn’t say or communicate any of this. He just hung there limply, the pain in his scalp growing as Lucius' grin widened further.

“But you were a bit… _spirited_ last time you met the Dark Lord. We can’t risk that again. No, this is going to be the last time we play this foolish game, Mr. Potter. We’ve got to soften you up a bit so you won’t cause our Lord any more trouble. If you would, Macnair.”

Harry felt a fist collide with his lower back - or at least he thought it was a fist. It could have easily been a battering ram or a cannonball. If he’d been able to move, he’d have curled in on himself and cried out. As it was, he couldn’t even move his mouth to grimace. Instead, he only closed his eyes.

Another blow came, this time to his shoulder. Then to his kidneys. His hip. The side of his head. Harry quickly lost track of each individual blow as his entire body became one single, throbbing source of pain. 

He would have preferred to die by strangulation, Harry thought distantly. It was far less painful than this.

Eventually Harry felt himself dropped to the concrete alley, and he felt a brief moment of relief before he heard Lucius mutter the dreaded word that so frequently haunted his dreams:

“ _Crucio!”_

Harry realized, at that moment, that Lucius must have dropped the Full Body-Bind Curse, because he found himself convulsing uncontrollably. Dry, rasping breaths that were too weak to be screams escaped his mouth. 

His nerves were alight with lightning - his lungs were filled with fire - his muscles were trying to pry free of his bones. His awareness was entirely consumed by the experience of pain, his consciousness condensed to a single burning point, like the white-hot center of a star.

When it finally stopped, Harry felt he would have done anything asked of him if it meant he’d never have to experience it again. He drank in the blessedly cool air around him in ragged breaths, and his body trembled like a leaf. If Lucius wanted him ‘softened’, he’d achieved it. Although no longer bound by a paralysis spell, Harry couldn’t stand, let alone run or fight.

  
  


Dimly, he became aware of a third voice in the alley… This voice sounded familiar too, but they were standing beyond Harry’s narrow, blurry range of vision.

_Blurry… Do I still have my glasses?_

Harry tried to lift a hand to his face to feel for them, but his wrist just flopped weakly.

The new voice was still speaking, interrupted occasionally by Lucius. They weren’t shouting - in fact, they seemed to be whispering urgently.

_Ah… Another Death Eater then._

If Harry had taken a moment to briefly hope that this new arrival was an ally, he would have been disappointed. But there was no room left in his exhausted husk of a body for an emotion like hope.

“...the boy… ... _I_ will take him…”

“...taking advantage of _my_ efforts…!”

He caught snippets of the conversation. It was growing more heated, but he couldn’t piece together enough information to understand why, or who this new person was. But as he lay on the ground and his mind slowly returned, he started to catch on.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lucius,” the new voice sneered. “What ‘efforts’? You don’t have a hair out of place on your pretty little head. The only thing I’ll be taking advantage of is Potter’s careless ineptitude.”

Something about that voice, the way it spat out his name like it had a sour taste, tugged at Harry’s memories. He’d heard that voice say his name before. He’d heard that name _insult_ him before…

“Severus,” Lucius growled, “We all know your loyalties are… tenuous. You’d just as soon take your precious Golden Boy back to Dumbledore. I don’t trust you to take him to our Lord.”

_Snape…!_

Harry’s mind launched into a tailspin. _Snape_ was _here?!_ Arguing with Lucius over who had the _honor_ of dropping him at Voldemort’s feet?! The rage that Harry thought had been smothered by pain was reigniting.

He _knew_ it. He _knew_ Snape was a traitor! He _knew_ he couldn’t be trusted! Muscles still protesting and uncoordinated, Harry tried to get his arms under his chest to push himself upright. He’d strangle Snape to death or die trying.

His efforts seemed to go unnoticed. The conversation above him continued unabated.

“You don’t trust _me_ with Potter _?_ Perhaps the Dark Lord shouldn’t have trusted _you_ with the _precious artifact_ that you casually dropped in the Weasley girl’s lap. Oh yes, I know all about that.”

There was no response. This seemed to have silenced Lucius.

“You turn tail at the first sign of trouble, Lucius. You may not be a traitor outright, but you’re a coward. You were among the first to claim innocence after the Dark Lord fell, and when the Ministry dogs started sniffing around your mansion, you abandoned what our Lord had trusted _you_ to protect without a second thought. He doesn’t know yet,” Snape continued silkily, “ _who_ exactly is responsible for the destruction of that diary. But I assure you he _will_ unless you allow me to claim what’s rightfully mine.”

Harry felt a swell of smug pleasure as Snape spoke about the diary. He’d destroyed the evil relic with his own hands, and was gratified to know that its loss was a blow to the Death Eaters and Voldemort.

Snape had paused again, seeming to let this threat sink in, and Harry could hear heavily shuffling footsteps in the quiet. Macnair, he assumed, watching this play out. He didn’t seem to wield the authority or the ambition to step into an argument between Snape and Lucius. 

No matter who won this power-play, Harry would be the loser. He needed to fight back. He needed his wand. Cracking open one painful, swollen eye, he looked desperately for it.

There it was… forgotten on the ground, rolled just under the nearby dumpster. Harry extended his fingers towards it, inch by excruciating inch...

“I had to suffer through teaching the insufferable brat for the past four years,” Snape hissed, a note of urgent insistence in his voice. “I’ve earned the right to see his sniveling face when I bring him before our Lord.”

At last, Lucius seemed to gather enough dignity to respond, a faint tremor to his voice. “Take him, then. But if he isn’t sprawled at the Dark Lord’s feet by the time I Apparate there myself, you’re a dead man. I’ve doubted which way your duplicity leans for years, Severus. Prove me right, and I’ll personally make sure the remainder of your short life is _merciless._ ”

“Save your drama for the theatre, Lucius,” Snape drawled. Harry heard the sharp clack of approaching footsteps.

“ _Accio wand!_ ” Harry mouthed in a whisper, hoping against all hope that the loyal wand would leap to his hand, but it didn’t move.

A gruff hand closed around Harry’s arm like a vice and he was yanked upright.

He met Snape’s eyes briefly, answering the man’s cool black gaze with his own furious green. In a rush of impulsive rage, he spit in Snape’s face. It was more blood than spit, but Harry grinned all the same at Snape’s murderous expression.

“Let’s go, Golden Boy.”

With that, Harry felt a sudden twisting pressure, and then he and Snape were whirling out of the alley in Little Whinging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all my readers, kudo-ers, bookmarkers, and commenters! This is my first time posting a fanfic and the reception has been really encouraging. 
> 
> My hope is to publish a new chapter approximately every week from here on out, so please stay tuned!
> 
> (Also, I know Harry has really been through it these last few chapters, but I promise it gets better for our hero soon!)


	4. The Cottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Snape Apparate and everyone is mad.

Apparition was like nothing he had ever experienced. 

Harry felt as though he were being squeezed from all sides, and he couldn’t expand his chest enough to take a breath. The world around him whirled dizzyingly, and it seemed as though the only thing that kept him from spinning off into the unformed abyss was Snape’s iron grip on his arm. Nevertheless, Harry struggled weakly against it. He did  _ not _ want to go wherever the man was taking him. But Harry had barely had the strength to protest when he still had both feet firmly on the ground. Now, in the midst of Apparition, when his entire body felt as though it were being simultaneously squeezed through a drinking straw and stretched like a human rubber band, he couldn’t do a thing.

Nearly as quickly as it had begun, the bizarre sensation ended, and Harry found himself deposited unceremoniously onto a damp and muddy lawn.

Before he could begin to wonder where they were, Harry promptly doubled over and emptied his stomach onto the grass. There was nothing but bile to come up; Harry couldn’t remember if his last meal had been breakfast that morning or lunch the day before.

Even with his feet (and now, hands) solidly on terra firma again, Harry’s head and stomach still felt as though they were spinning at hundreds of kilometers per hour.

Above him, he heard Snape’s oily voice sneer, “First time Apparating, Potter? Pull yourself together and get up. We don’t have time to waste.”

Harry wanted to scream at him. He wanted to hex him into oblivion. He wanted to stand up and sprint away. (He was sure he was faster than the older man, especially with his heavy, voluminous robes.)

But Harry couldn’t do any of that. So he resorted to the next best thing: punching him.

Harry uncoiled from the ground like a spring, putting his upward momentum and the strength of his legs behind his punch. There was a flash of surprise in Snape’s eyes, but he deftly side-stepped Harry’s lunge and caught his wrist in one long-fingered hand.

“Stop acting like a wild animal, Potter,” he snapped.

_ I will when I’m not trapped like one,  _ Harry thought angrily. 

His throat burned. After Vernon’s thrashing, Macnair’s beating, the Cruciatus Curse, and now his acidic retching, Harry was practically mute. Just breathing felt like dragging glass shards into his lungs. Coherent words were an impossibility. But that didn’t stop him from trying, even if they came out sounding like wheezing growls. 

If Snape thought he was acting like a wild animal, it was fitting that he sounded like one too.

He snarled and clawed at the man with his free hand, a reckless fury rising up within him. If they thought Harry would  _ ever _ stop fighting entirely, he’d show them just how wrong they were. He’d take everything he could from them until the moment he drew his last breath.

“ _ STOP!”  _ Snape roared, seizing Harry’s other wrist.

Harry thrashed, leaning away from Snape with all his weight, his body aching with the strain of it.

_ NO! NEVER! _

“You idiotic-- look around you, Potter! Rally whatever minuscule sliver of reason you possess and  _ look _ for Merlin’s sake!”

Harry  _ refused _ to obey an order from Snape, the slimy traitor... but it  _ would _ be helpful to know how many other Death Eaters surrounded them…

He chanced a sideways glance and, finally, did stop. There was… no one here?

Wrists still held tightly in Snape’s grasp, Harry craned his neck around, taking in as much of his surroundings as possible.

There was no one else here. 

They were standing in an open meadow, just outside the low picket fence and overflowing gardens of a charming stucco cottage. Without his glasses, all the shapes were a bit fuzzy around the edges, but he was fairly certain that nothing else in the low meadow was remotely Death-Eater-shaped.

Other than the rhythmic crashing of waves not too far away, a soft breeze through the grasses, and his own ragged breaths, there wasn’t a sound.

Harry felt the fight drain out of him, replaced by confusion. Where the hell had Snape taken him…?

His wrists were released, and Snape stepped back, brushing off his robes with clear irritation.

“If you’re quite done throwing a royal  _ fit, _ get inside the cottage. It’s not safe out here.”

Without another look at Harry, Snape whirled and marched up the flagstone path to the cottage’s rounded front door. 

Harry didn’t move. His brain couldn’t seem to process what was happening. Unless Voldemort had recently taken up residence in a cozy seaside bungalow, Snape had  _ not _ taken him to the Death Eaters.  Had Snape actually brought Harry to Dumbledore? Looking at rainbow flower beds, kitschy yard decor, and old-fashioned construction, this place seemed like  _ exactly _ where the Headmaster would spend his summer holidays.

Snape had taken him to Dumbledore… He was safe.

Harry felt a flood of relief. He couldn’t bring himself to feel any regret for how he’d reacted to Snape (despite the man’s allegiances, he was still a git), but at least Harry wouldn’t be murdered by Voldemort tonight.

With shaky steps, Harry followed Snape towards the cottage. As he passed through the garden gate, a gentle warmth passed over him, as though he had been ushered inside an invisible and sun-warmed tent. The property must be warded… He really  _ was _ safe here.

The door was still open when Harry reached it and he stepped inside, though Snape was nowhere to be found. That suited Harry just fine. He had no intention of speaking to the man other than to ask where Dumbledore was.

He kicked off his muddy trainers at the door and eased his school bag off his shoulders. He didn’t have his wand or his Firebolt, both of which he assumed were still in the alley at Magnolia Crescent, but miraculously his bag hadn’t fallen off in the scuffle. Well, he thought as he carefully unclenched his white-knuckled fingers from the strap, maybe it wasn’t a ‘miracle’ if he’d been holding it  _ that  _ tightly the entire time.

Miracle or not, he was beyond grateful to have it with him. His father’s Invisibility Cloak and the photo album of his family were still tucked safely inside. These precious relics of his family were irreplaceable. Another Firebolt, he thought with resignation,  _ could  _ be purchased eventually. 

But his wand… he  _ needed _ his wand.  _ That _ wand specifically was his only true weapon against Voldemort. If Lucius and Macnair had taken it, he was as good as dead.

But, he reasoned, he wasn’t  _ literally _ dead at this very moment. Better to be alive and without his wand than to be dead beside it. Surely Dumbledore would have a solution.

Harry looked up eagerly at the sound of approaching footsteps, but his expression soured when he saw it was just Snape reentering the room. Although the professor’s face was difficult to make out at this distance, it was clear that he was equally as unhappy to see Harry.

“Potter,” he snarled, standing in the middle of the rounded living room and folding his arms across his chest. His voice bristled with a low and barely-contained fury. “I don’t know what possessed you to wander away from your family’s home tonight, after all the warnings we gave you, after how much was sacrificed to keep you safe-”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, despite not having the voice to do so, but it didn’t matter. Snape sharply cut him off before he could begin.

“Not a  _ word _ from you. I don’t want to hear your meager excuses, whatever they may be. What I  _ want _ is for you to sit in that chair and not move a  _ muscle _ while I sort out the absolute  _ mess  _ you’ve made. Do. I. Make. My. Self.  _ CLEAR? _ ”

A mutinous expression on his face, Harry nodded. What other choice did he have? No wand, no broom, not a clue where he was, and Death Eaters actively on the hunt for him. Much as it pained him to obey Snape, he was perfectly happy to simply sit in a comfortable chair in Dumbledore’s summer home. After the day he’d had, it sounded like a dream come true.

Snape gruffly waved his hand at the furniture gathered on the opposite side of the room, and stormed off through the house, wand already moving and mouth already muttering incantations.

The house was dark and Snape hadn’t lit any lanterns, but the abundant moonlight through the open windows provided plenty of light to navigate by. Harry trudged over to the sitting area, found the largest, poofiest wingback (a soft purple--  _ definitely _ Dumbledore’s), and flopped gratefully into it.

Harry released a long, slow exhale as he sank into the chair. 

He was safe. He’d gotten away from Vernon, he’d survived the Death Eaters, most of his precious possessions had survived the bizarre events of the evening, and now he was in Dumbledore’s house. All the other issues: the consequences of what he’d done to his uncle, the mystery of how the Death Eaters had found him, the absence of his wand… these were all problems for future-Harry. He’d figure it out in the morning, and if he couldn’t, then Dumbledore would handle it.

It was going to be okay.

The exhaustion and soreness of the last few hours seemed to magnify a thousand-fold as Harry sat there. His body was probably more bruised than not, and his face… Harry lifted a hand to his face, tentatively prodding the tender flesh. He winced, and his fingers came away sticky with blood.

It was probably best he didn’t have his glasses. He didn’t want to see what he looked like right now.

Harry swallowed thickly. His throat was parched, and a glass of water would have felt like heaven… but he didn’t know where the kitchen was in this cottage, and he wasn’t about to ask. Snape had told him to stay in the chair. If the man found him wandering around, he’d probably be mad enough to  _ actually _ take him to Voldemort. He’d just have to wait. Another problem for future-Harry to solve.

Despite himself, Harry felt himself drifting off. Snape couldn’t possibly be mad if he fell asleep, could he? He’d told Harry not to move a muscle and not to speak a word. That sounded like the definition of sleep.

Harry curled against the wings of the chair, pulling his scarf and hood more securely around him. When he woke up, he told himself buoyingly, Dumbledore would be here and everything would be just fine.

Holding tightly to that hope, Harry fell into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

* * *

Harry awoke to the sounds of raised voices and a muffled thud. With a start, he jolted upright and reached instinctively for his wand before remembering he didn’t have it. 

_ Shit. _

Trying to blink away his groggy, blurry vision, he fumbled on the nearby end table for his glasses before remembering he didn’t have those either.

_ Shit! _

Finally, Harry’s brain caught up with him. He was in Dumbledore’s summer home. Snape had rescued him from Lucius and Macnair. They were safe here… right?

There was another thumping sound-- like someone had kicked a piece of furniture-- and Harry crept slowly from the wingback chair. A light was shining from somewhere down the hall. Through the open doorway, Harry could hear the conversation clearly.

“Now Severus, please, be reasonable.”

_ Dumbledore! _

Harry felt a thrill of excitement. He really was here! He would handle everything. He would find Harry’s wand, and answer his questions, and tell him where the hell Ron and Hermione had been these past few weeks, and-

“Albus!” Snape’s voice rose angrily, “You can’t possibly expect me to-”

“I am not  _ expecting  _ it, Severus. I am  _ insisting. _ There is no other option.”

“Teach him yourself! I refuse to be his babysitter and personal tutor!”

Dumbledore’s voice quieted, his calm tone taking on a sorrowful note. “You know why that’s an impossibility.”

Harry crept closer, struggling to follow the conversation. What did he need to be taught? Whatever it was, he agreed with Snape: he’d much rather have Dumbledore do it.

“It’s clear to me now more than ever,” Dumbledore continued in a hush, “that this is a most critical skill for Harry to learn. The connection is likely how-”

He cut himself off, and Harry had the sudden prickling sensation that Dumbledore  _ knew _ he was there. On silent feet, he hurried back to the chair and tucked himself in again, closing his eyes and feigning sleep. A moment later, there was the creak of a floorboard in the hall as if someone were leaning out of the doorway and peeking towards the sitting room.

As much as Harry longed to speak to the Headmaster, he couldn’t be caught eavesdropping. He needed them to continue talking so he could keep listening…

He had no such luck. He heard the sound of a door closing with a quiet click, and the conversation picked up again at a whisper. One of them must have warded the door, because although Harry could still hear the faint sounds of their voices, it was as though he were hearing them from underwater. Everything was garbled and muffled.

He’d just have to ask the Headmaster in the morning. He was sick and tired of being kept in the dark. Ron and Hermione had been keeping something from him; they were fairly open about their forced secrecy. It was obvious now that Dumbledore’s radio silence thus far had been intentional, too. He  _ would _ get answers from them… something big was going on, and whatever it was had to do with him.

Wrapping himself firmly in his scarf and his indignation, Harry went uneasily back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter this time, but the next chapter is mostly written - just needs a bit of editing and tidying up! :)
> 
> See you next week! <3


	5. The Warden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape is not entirely terrible, for once.

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry groaned. His face was buried in Mrs. Weasley’s thick knitted scarf, and it was comfortable. Although his eyes were still closed and partially covered by his hoodie, he could sense the bright morning sunlight just waiting to pierce them. He wasn’t ready to be awake yet… because as soon as he actually woke up, all the problems he had relegated to ‘future-Harry’ would suddenly be in the purview of ‘current-Harry’. He’d much rather stay not-quite-awake-yet-Harry for a little while longer.

He was therefore supremely upset when a hand roughly yanked down his hood.

“ _Mr. Potter,_ ” the voice said again acidly, “I am not your doting maid and I ran out of patience for your antics four years ago. _Get. Up._ ”

Oh. It was _Snape_.

Harry sat up with a grunt, bringing a hand to rub at the krick in his neck. Sleeping in a chair hadn’t done his neck any favors… in fact, his whole body rioted as he carefully moved and stretched. It didn’t make logical sense to him, but his injuries somehow felt even _worse_ after a night of rest. And now he had _Snape_ to deal with first thing in the morning. The day was off to a great start.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes and the blurry sitting room came into view. Snape was sitting on the low sofa across from him, just leaning back again after jerking back Harry’s hood, one leg crossed primly over the other. It was impossible to discern his expression. It seemed stony.

Harry rubbed at his eyes and grimaced… they were swollen and painful, and the fuzzy room was giving him a headache. He blinked expectantly at Snape, waiting for the man to continue.

“You could show a little more gratitude for the man who saved your life, Potter, and wipe that grimace off your face.” Snape’s tone was venomous. Harry could see, even through the haze of his squinted eyes, that the potions master was bouncing his foot in irritation. He seemed even more annoyed than usual, and that was saying a lot.

Harry couldn’t exactly reply one way or another, so he just stared back, trying to coax his face into something more placid.

“As a result of your sheer _lunacy_ yesterday, you and I will regrettably be spending the next several weeks together here in the cottage.”

His body reacted before his mind could catch up, and Harry found himself on his feet, fists clenched painfully at his sides, mutely glaring at Snape. The professor reacted just as quickly and stood toe-to-toe with Harry, the tip of his wand pressing into the underside of Harry’s chin.

Up close, it was easy to see the vehement rage on Snape’s face. Harry didn’t balk. He felt the same. He was going to be stuck here with _Snape?!_ Even if the man had to tutor him on whatever he had been discussing with Dumbledore last night, there had been no mention of them being _flatmates_.

“You think I like this arrangement, Potter?!” Snape spoke around clenched teeth, seeming to vibrate with the intensity of his emotion. “You’ve upended _everything_ we’ve been working towards! Do you think Lucius and that oaf Macnair haven’t put two and two together by now? There is no way to excuse why I didn’t bring you to the Dark Lord. You forced my hand. By taking you to safety, I have irrevocably declared my allegiance to the Light. Do you understand, boy?! I had to sacrifice my position as Dumbledore’s spy!”

Harry felt a chill run down his spine as realization struck him. Snape had been Dumbledore’s _spy…_ ? So it was true after all. And now the Death Eaters would know exactly who he’d truly been double-crossing. It made sense, of course… Lucius had even said as much, before they Apparated. When Snape never arrived with Harry, when he instead spirited him away to this safehouse, Voldemort would have known at once that his loyal ‘spy’ had been playing him… If Harry knew anything about Voldemort, it’s that he carried a hell of a grudge. If Snape were ever captured by Voldemort… it would be even worse than whatever fate awaited _Harry._ And besides, it meant that--

“We now know _nothing_ of their plans and movements. Despite your worship of him, Professor Dumbledore is not _omnipotent._ I have been his eyes and ears for the past fourteen years, and now we are _blinded_ at our most crucial moment, because _you_ decided to have a temper tantrum and leave the _one place_ they could not touch you!”

Snape was shouting, spittle flying from his lips, his wand pressing deeper into the soft hollow under Harry’s chin. Harry had never seen him in such a rage… not even at the end of third year when he’d somehow known that Harry and Hermione had set Sirius free. And Harry could understand why. 

His stomach twisted uncomfortably; it felt like he was in free-fall. 

_He_ had done this… Voldemort had been revived because of him, and now, when the wizarding world was in more danger than ever, when it would be most valuable to have a spy in his inner circle, Harry had _ruined_ it.

And it _had_ been a temper tantrum, hadn’t it? He’d been so angry at Vernon. It _was_ anger, right? Anger was the only emotion that could launch a full-grown man at a wall so hard it cracked. Anger was the only emotion that could wandlessly obliterate a locked door. And when he’d stormed out of Number Four, his most precious belongings stuffed precariously in a knapsack, hadn’t it been anger emboldening his steps?

Calling it a ‘temper tantrum’ wasn’t too far off. He _had_ been warned to be careful and to stay at home… He’d known how important it was to stay at the Dursleys, and the magical protection that the home had offered. He should have worked harder not to rock the boat… He just had to endure two short months and then he’d have been back at Hogwarts. But instead he’d been stupid. He’d let his emotions get the better of him. He’d annoyed Vernon one too many times… And now... 

Now he was stuck in a cottage with Snape, both of them in hiding, with no idea what Voldemort was planning.

Harry’s knees collapsed under him and he sank back onto the chair behind him. He could hear Snape’s harsh, angry breathing above him, but he couldn’t stand to look up at him anymore. The man was right, about everything.

Suddenly it felt as though Harry hadn’t slept at all. The exhaustion and pain came back full-force, and Harry dropped his head heavily into his hands. He wished the earth would just open up and swallow him.

“So you _do_ understand,” Snape snarled quietly. “Unfortunately, it’s far too late for regrets. You can’t undo what’s been done. But for the remainder of the summer, so long as I am forced to supervise and instruct you, you will not put a single _toe_ out of line, _do you understand me?_ ”

Harry nodded. He didn’t want to know how _Snape_ would handle household discipline, but he wagered it was far worse than anything Vernon had done.

“Answer me _properly_ , Potter. You will address me with ‘Yes, sir’ or ‘No, sir’ when spoken to.”

Harry raised his head then, mouth open in helpless mute appeal.

_I can’t!_ He thought miserably.

And there was no way to _explain_ to Snape why he couldn’t answer him, certainly not with him in his current mood.

“Potter!” Snape roared, absolutely livid, bright spots of color appearing high on his cheekbones. Harry saw them only as red blotches on the blurry pale smear of the man’s face.

Unable to find any other way to convey the problem, Harry pulled the scarf from his neck and pointed emphatically at the bruised flesh.

Snape suddenly became very still. Harry couldn’t see the nuances of his expression, so he wasn’t sure if this had stalled the professor’s fury or further enflamed it.

A long, silent moment passed in the cottage’s sitting room before Snape stated, very quietly: “Your throat was injured.”

It wasn’t phrased like a question, but Harry nodded fiercely anyway. The quick movements were agony, but he felt it important to clearly confirm Snape’s statement before he got in further trouble.

After a moment of silent observation, Snape seemed to arrive at a conclusion and spoke. “You’re unable to speak, at present.” Another declaration for Harry to confirm or deny. He nodded again, grimacing at the repeated movement.

There was a long-suffering sigh from the potions master, and he swept from the room without another word.

Harry stayed where he was, lifting one hand to carefully massage his neck. He supposed that if he couldn’t talk, Snape wouldn’t bother him about the ‘yessir’s and ‘nossir’s. Nodding or shaking his head seemed to suffice, and the man was probably happy that he wouldn’t have to hear Harry’s annoying voice for a few more days of their forced cohabitation.

It therefore came as a surprise when Snape marched back into the room a moment later and gruffly handed Harry a small vial. It seemed to be filled with a viscous cherry-red concoction.

“Drink,” he commanded emotionlessly.

His bedside manner could use some improvement, Harry thought, but at least he wasn’t yelling anymore. 

Uncorking the potion, Harry gave it a tentative sniff. It smelled a lot like cough syrup. He downed the vial in one go, and the taste nearly made him gag. It didn’t _taste_ like cough syrup. It oozed down his throat, feeling first like warm honey and then like a cooling balm. The entire time, it tasted like rotten cabbage.

“Ack- That’s _terrible!_ ” Harry gagged, and it took a moment for him to realize that the thought had been voiced aloud, and it didn’t send him into ragged coughs.

“The proper response would have been ‘Thank you, sir’,” Snape snapped.

“...Thank you. _Sir_ ,” Harry bit out, grateful despite himself. Although his throat was still dry and sore (and he was still parched), it was possible to breathe and talk normally again.

“What else?” Snape asked simply, his voice still cold and detached.

“Excuse me?”

“Did they addle your brain too? What. _Else_ ? Your martyrdom is wasted on me. Whatever other injuries you’re secretly nursing, spit them out. You’ll be even more useless than normal if you’re limping around or unable to speak, so let’s just get them out of the way. _What else?_ ”

Harry crossed his arms and pressed his lips tightly together. He refused to whine to Snape about a few bumps and bruises. They weren’t going to make him _useless_ , and he’d walked off much worse injuries before. His lack of glasses was going to be a real problem, but he’d sooner squint his way through the rest of the summer than ask Snape to fix it.

Snape brandished his wand again and stood abruptly. He began to murmur a spell under his breath, drawing elaborate, twisting shapes over Harry’s head.

“What- what the hell are you doing?!” Harry demanded, pressing himself against the chair’s back.

“I don’t have time for your teenage drama and willful silence. Oh calm down, Potter. You act like I’m assaulting you.”

Snape seemed to finish the spell and a moment later, a long scroll materialized next to his wand. He plucked it from the air and began to read, ignoring Harry entirely.

Harry looked, astonished, from the wand to the scroll. He somehow felt violated, although he couldn’t explain why.

“What is that? What did you do?”

Snape pursed his thin lips. Without looking up from the scroll, he waved a lazy hand at Harry. “A diagnostic spell. If you can’t be trusted to disclose your injuries on your own, I have no choice but to determine them magically.”

His eyes moved down the list, then up at Harry, then back to the list.

“For Merlin’s sake-” he muttered, and lifted his wand again. “ _Accio drinking glass._ ”

A tall glass zipped dutifully into Snape’s hand from the other room, and he swiftly transfigured it into what was, even to Harry’s unfocused eyes, a familiar shape.

“Here. Put these on and stop _squinting_ at me.”

Snape extended a hand towards Harry, the newly formed glasses dangling from his pinched fingers. They were remarkably similar to the glasses Harry normally wore… the same lens shape, the same thin wire frames, and-- when he put them on-- somehow the same prescription. Harry’s world snapped into glaring focus, and it was almost painful to see the world in such vivid detail when his head was still throbbing. 

He blinked up at Snape, and caught his professor’s expression just as it shifted from some undefinable blank mask to a look of long-suffering annoyance.

“Th-thank you, sir,” Harry murmured. That was one problem future-Harry could check off his list.

Snape just shook his head in response, eyes returning to the scroll still in his hand. He perused it carefully, gaze occasionally flicking up to scan over Harry. Perched on the chair in the now eerily-silent sitting room, Harry couldn’t help but squirm. He somehow preferred livid Snape over _this_ Snape. He felt rather a lot like a specimen being observed under the man’s microscope.

Finally Snape seemed to reach the bottom of the diagnostic scroll and nodded once, releasing it as it popped from existence.

“There is extensive bruising on your neck, shoulders, and torso,” he announced clinically, eyes fixed piercingly on Harry. “You have two cracked ribs, several abrasions along your face, a mild sprain in your shoulder, and widespread acute nerve damage, as is typical following the Cruciatus Curse.”

Harry stared back; the results were unsurprising, although he wasn’t entirely certain what ‘abrasions’ meant.

Snape sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let me put this in simple words even your small brain can understand: You have been severely injured, and it will take some time to treat your various ailments. I can only hope that, if nothing else, your own personal suffering will make clear to you how _unbelievably stupid_ you have been, since the consequences to _others_ seems to be lost on you. Do not move.”

The professor marched out of the room once more. Probably to get more potions, Harry thought. A minute later his suspicions were confirmed when Snape returned, carrying what appeared to be an entire pharmacy with him.

“Drink these,” Snape intoned, passing two vials to Harry: one slate grey and the other an electric yellow. He grimaced as he accepted them, but dutifully choked them down. They tasted as foul as the previous potion, but immediately the aching throughout Harry’s body began to ease.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry muttered again, trying his best to play the role of the obedient and remorseful patient.

“Now,” the man said, sounding like he was steeling himself, “Remove your shirt.”

“ _WHAT?!”_ Harry shouted, crossing his arms tightly over his hoodie. “I don’t know _what_ you think y-”

“Believe me, I take no joy in this, Potter! The only treatment for your bruises is either time, which you do not have, or a topical balm. Put simply: it must be _applied directly to your ungrateful hide!_ Now _take off your shirt_ or Merlin help me I will Petrify you.”

The thought of Snape’s long, creepy fingers touching his neck and torso sent disgusted shivers down his back, but Harry had no doubt the man meant every word he said.

“Fine! _Fine!_ ” Harry growled. He didn’t seem to have a choice in the matter, but he’d rather take off his own shirt than have his hated professor pry the clothes off his petrified body. Besides, he’d taken off his shirt in front of the Quidditch team loads of times in the changing rooms, or when Madam Pomfrey was treating him in the hospital wing. This wasn’t so different, right? 

But somehow he couldn’t prevent the flush that crept into his cheeks as he stood and peeled off Mrs. Weasley’s scarf, then his baggy hoodie, and finally his oversized secondhand t-shirt.

He sat back on the edge of the chair with a huff, carefully training his gaze on his knees.

There was a long quiet moment in which neither of them moved or spoke. Harry was _sure_ that despite his assurances, Snape _was_ taking joy in this. It was humiliating. Harry had always been scrawny, but especially so after the past few weeks. He’d simply had no appetite after the end of the Triwizard Tournament, and spending his days laboring around the Dursley’s yard had stripped his body of every reserve.

And not only that… Harry could see now, as he stared down at himself, that his body was a mess. Mottled bruises new and old covered his abdomen, ranging from a sickly chartreuse to a deep wine purple. Against his pale skin, they all stood out in stark relief.

Snape was probably drinking it all in… the sight of his most hated student, and the recent source of so much trouble, suffering as he rightly deserved. Dumbledore must have instructed him to take care of Harry, and he’d get in trouble if he left his injuries untended… but before he had to reluctantly do his job, he’d be sitting there, reveling in Harry’s pain as long as he could.

Harry wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He wouldn’t let Snape see him grovel or cower. Rallying his Gryffindor courage, he raised his head to fiercely meet Snape’s eyes.

But the man wasn’t reveling. Instead, Harry saw an expression on Snape’s dour face he had never seen before. The man looked… concerned, disturbed even. It lasted only a moment before Snape blinked and those black eyes were scowling once more, but Harry was _sure_ he’d seen it.

When Snape spoke again, his voice was decidedly level. “Stay still, Potter.”

Standing and moving around him, Snape unscrewed a small jar of thick, creamy ointment. With one deft hand, he removed a small dollop and reached for Harry’s back. Harry braced himself for the sensation of cold hands, unpleasantly sticky ointment, or astringent odors… but there was no need. Snape’s fingers on his back were warm and surprisingly gentle. The bruise balm felt soothing against his skin, and it had a light citrusy scent.

Harry closed his eyes, tense shoulders drooping forward as the pain across his back slowly began to ease. Right now, when he didn’t have to stare at the man’s scowling face or listen to his sneering voice, when his light fingers were moving carefully over the many aches and pains on Harry’s wounded back, he could _almost_ pretend that Severus Snape was… well… being _nice._

It felt as though the balm had been applied to every inch of Harry’s back by the time Snape was done, but he supposed that shouldn’t be surprising.

“Sit up straight,” Snape commanded as he shifted around to Harry’s front. Eyes still closed, Harry obeyed, moving his arms to his sides.

Just as methodically and just as lightly, Snape began to apply the balm to Harry’s chest and shoulders. It was eerie… this really wasn’t like Snape at all. Harry would have thought the man, if forced to tend to him as Dumbledore had obviously insisted, would have done so gruffly and with no small amount of insults to Harry’s character. 

But from the moment Harry revealed his neck, and the diagnostic spell had subsequently revealed everything else, the professor had been… _attentive_ . Sure, there had been grumbling and a few snide jibes for good measure, but compared to his usual self, this version of Snape was practically _maternal._

All at once, Harry had the awful feeling that this version of Snape wasn’t Snape at all, but someone else entirely under the effects of Polyjuice potion. It would make a lot more sense than the real Snape actually making an attempt to be civil to him. After everything that happened with Professor Moody last year, one couldn’t be too careful...

Tension returning to his shoulders, Harry cracked open one eye, analyzing the man’s face. Was it really him, or an imposter?

The professor’s face was strangely neutral and intently focused as he worked. Had he ever seen Snape’s face bearing a countenance other than some variation of ‘angry’ or ‘sour’? Anytime Harry had seen him teaching classes, supervising detentions, prowling the halls, or even just sitting at the staff table in the Great Hall, the man always looked like he was disgusted in everything and everyone around him… _especially_ so if he was around Harry.

So why was he behaving this way _now,_ of all times?

Harry continued to stare, none too subtly at this close distance, until Snape finally straightened and capped the balm.

“You can stop glaring holes in my skull, Potter,” he intoned cooly. Harry flushed and looked away.

“I- I wasn’t-!”

“That will suffice for today,” Snape continued, cutting him off smoothly but with no evident hostility. “Due to the severity of the bruising, the balm will need to be reapplied again tomorrow and possibly the day after. I will assist as needed. Here-”

He passed Harry the jar of balm.

“You will apply a thin layer to the bruising on your neck and face later today. You should be able to reach them yourself with the aid of a mirror. Up. Follow me. The remainder of your potions cannot be taken on an empty stomach.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry muttered, standing up and tugging his shirt and hoodie back over his head.

Still not entirely convinced the man wasn’t a bizarrely polite Snape impersonator, Harry followed him wordlessly from the sitting room.


	6. Unraveling Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape has some questions and Harry loses his cool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the ongoing support! I love reading all your comments, and I'm glad you're all enjoying reading this story as much as I'm enjoying writing it!  
> As always, I'll try to post the next chapter by next week. <3

Now that it was illuminated by the crisp morning sunlight (and now that he had his glasses again), Harry could clearly see the interior of the cottage as they walked towards the kitchen.

The sitting room lay just beyond the rounded front door, and it featured a large bay window that overlooked the sea. Today, the sky was scattered with thin clouds and the ocean was a dark steely grey. The window was flanked by the cushy lilac purple wingback in which Harry had slept and a low periwinkle couch. A white brick fireplace dominated the entirety of one side of the room. Smooth pale stucco walls, warm wood floors, and an abundance of woven rugs made the space feel cozy and airy. 

Harry had never spent much time by the ocean, except for that disastrous ‘vacation’ after his Hogwarts letters first arrived, but he already found himself enjoying the clean, salty sea air and endless murmur of waves that filled the cottage.

They walked past the short hallway down which Harry had heard Snape and Dumbledore the night before, and moved instead through a large open archway decorated with a mosaic of sea glass. The kitchen was modest and just as homey as the rest of the house. More windows stood with shutters thrown open to let in the fresh air, and a simple rustic table was set with two chairs. Similar to the rest of the house, the kitchen was done in cool pastel tones with a few charming and tasteful seaside decorations.

Harry kept looking around, eagerly hoping to spot Dumbledore, but there was no sign of the man.

“Sit.” Snape waved Harry towards one of the chairs at the table and began moving around the kitchen. Wand twirling in practiced motions, he quickly set a kettle to boil, conjured a pair of teacups, and levitated a mishmash of breakfast ingredients into a frying pan that began to cook them of its own accord.

With the process of breakfast set in order, Snape took the seat across from Harry and carefully folded his hands in his lap. For a long, uncomfortable moment, the man said nothing and simply stared at Harry with his piercing gaze, as if looking for something in his eyes. Harry stared back reproachfully, trying his best not to wilt beneath the close inspection.

At last, Snape sighed and leaned forward, steepling his fingers before him.

“I am endeavoring, Mr. Potter, to give you the benefit of the doubt, much as it pains me.” His tone was clipped, as if he were keeping his temper on a very tight leash. “Dumbledore has insisted that you would not leave your home at Privet Drive without due cause, though I cannot possibly fathom what that might be. The last time you foolishly ran away from home, it was because you had lost your temper and accidentally turned your relative into a human balloon.”

Harry jutted his chin forward, unwilling to feel guilty about that. No one had gotten hurt in the end, and Aunt Marge’s words had been unforgivable. And no danger had come to Harry on his brief sojourn to the Leaky Cauldron. In fact, those weeks spent living at the tavern and exploring Diagon Alley had to have been one of the best summers of his life. He didn’t regret a thing and wouldn’t let Snape use it against him.

“Rectifying the situation required the swift intervention of several Ministry officials, the deployment of an Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, and a fair bit of smooth-talking from Professor Dumbledore. Normally, we would have already paid a visit to your home to clean up whatever mess you’ve obviously left in your wake this time-”

_ ‘Normally’ _ ... meaning they hadn’t gone yet? Harry’s mind was working rapidly, trying to figure out how much Snape knew. Should he start arguing in his defense now, or did the man not yet know what had happened? Did he have a chance to lie his way out of this, or would he need to counter Vernon’s side of the story? If Snape or someone from the Ministry had already spoken to the Dursleys, he was done for. They would be furious, and their version of events would paint Harry as a malicious villain. 

But Snape’s tone seemed remarkably level, if strained. Maybe he didn’t know.

“-however, we haven’t been able to approach the Dursleys' home as of yet.”

“Why not?” Harry blurted before he could think better of it.

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “That is not information you need to know. What  _ I  _ need to know is  _ precisely _ what trouble you’ve caused there. If you’ve done something to violate the Statute of Secrecy-”

“I haven’t!” Harry shouted, a little too forcefully. Snape’s eyes remained disdainfully narrowed, and one eyebrow arched slowly into his hairline. “I  _ haven’t _ ,” He repeated firmly, at a normal volume. 

“I…” Harry looked away, thinking hard about how he could answer honestly enough to get off the hook, but vaguely enough so as not to dig his own grave. “I got into an argument with my uncle. We were inside… no one saw anything. My aunt and cousin weren’t even home. Just my uncle.”

“You got into an argument with your uncle…” Snape echoed, voice lowering to a mocking jeer. “What, pray tell, put you in such a temper? Did your relatives not tuck you into bed with a story  _ and _ a kiss? Was your request for a pony denied?”

Harry took a deep breath, trying to tamp down the indignation that was steadily rising within him. He couldn’t lose control, not again.

“ _No,_ ” he spat. “It was… It… Look, it doesn’t matter, does it? We got into an argument. I lost my temper and I stormed off. That’s what happened.”

Snape’s lips curled back in a condescending sneer. “Don’t insult me by lying, Potter. You’re as prone to starting arguments as a fish is prone to swimming. If you ran away after each and every one, we’d need a leash and collar to keep you at home. Therefore, this wasn’t just  _ any _ argument. What happened?”

Harry felt himself being backed into a corner. His heart stuttered uncomfortably in his chest. Had it always been this hot in the kitchen? The thick fabric of his jacket felt too constricting, too warm, and his entire body jittered restlessly. There was  _ no  _ way he was telling Snape what had happened… Wasn’t there anyone else to talk to about this?

McGonagall was terrifying in her own right, but she was always just when it came to punishments. She’d be furious with him, but he’d never be in  _ danger _ from her. He might, however, start off the school year with Gryffindor’s points in the negative. If he told Hagrid about it, the half-giant would rage against Vernon and tell Harry that his uncle had gotten what he deserved. Lupin would probably understand and sympathize with Harry’s decisions, even if he disapproved. Sirius might actually  _ laugh  _ at Vernon. And Dumbledore... he had just been here last night. Couldn't Harry have this conversation with _him_? Any of them would be easier to talk to than  _ Snape. _

Harry shuffled in his seat. “Is… Is Professor Dumbledore home? I’d much rather discuss this with him-”

“‘Home’? The Headmaster doesn’t live here, Potter,” Snape responded sharply.    
“He has far more important things to do than spend his summer lounging in a quaint cottage. Needless to say, Professor Dumbledore is unavailable.”

“Oh.” Harry immediately felt stupid, but refused to give up on the notion. “Um, do you know when he might be back to visit? Because I’d really prefer to-”

“The Headmaster will not be returning to the cottage, Potter!” Snape slammed his hands on the table, rattling the small ceramic vase at its center. “ _ No one _ will be coming to the cottage, and neither of us will be leaving. You still don’t understand, do you? Your little stunt compromised  _ everyone _ in the Order. It’s not safe for anyone else to be in contact with you, not while the Dark Lord can still-”

The professor stopped himself, biting back whatever he was going to say next. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with one pale hand.

Harry’s heart was thundering. What was ‘the Order’? What could Voldemort do that made Harry so dangerous that evidently not even  _ Dumbledore _ could be around him? Was he really going to be stuck in this small cottage with  _ only _ Snape? What about Ron and Hermione? What about Sirius?

“Potter,” Snape finally growled into the silence, eyes still closed against the infuriating sight of Harry’s face, “You  _ do not comprehend _ the extent of what you’ve done. You and I are going to be spending a great deal of time together in the coming weeks, so I advise you take that under consideration and  _ tell me the truth _ before I make the remainder of your summer a  _ living hell. _ What.  _ Happened? _ ”

He was out of options, wasn’t he? Snape had an uncanny ability to sense when Harry was lying, or even when he was withholding the truth. He didn’t want to be trapped in a cottage with a furious Snape (well, he didn’t want to be trapped with  _ any _ variety of Snape), so it really was in his best interests to be honest. Or at least as honest as he could be without telling him about-

Harry brought a hand to nervously rub the back of his neck, where the bruises from his uncle’s hands still ached.

No, he  _ definitely  _ wasn’t going to tell Snape about  _ that _ little detail.

He took a minute to carefully gather his thoughts, while the enchanted frying pan still cheerfully sizzled with bacon and eggs in the background.

“I… got into an argument with my uncle,” Harry mumbled.

“Speak up, Potter. I’m not a house elf.”

“I got into an argument with my uncle!” He started again, forcing out the words in a huff of breath. “Things got heated. He was yelling, and I got so angry I… I lashed out. With magic.  _ Accidentally! _ ”

When Harry chanced a look up, Snape was wearing a terrifyingly stormy expression.

“And so I left as quickly as I could,” Harry finished in a rush. “Before he could… do anything.”

“Let me get this straight,” Snape responded, voice sharp as a whip. “You picked a fight with your uncle…  _ attacked him with magic _ … and then ran away to avoid being punished.”

“I didn’t  _ pick a fight- _ ”

“The  _ brave  _ Harry Potter,” Snape scoffed. “All that feckless Gryffindor courage, but too cowardly to accept the reasonable consequences of your delinquent misbehavior.”

“I’m  _ not  _ a cowar-”

“Is your uncle injured, Potter?”

“I- He- I didn’t-” Harry stumbled over his words, unable to truthfully answer the question.

“Merlin’s beard, boy--  _ What did you do?!  _ If you used magic to  _ assault your own relatives _ -”

“He was breathing fine when I left!” Harry shouted, and then immediately quailed at the look on Snape’s face. That somehow sounded a lot worse when he said it outloud…

“I just- I just knocked him unconscious!” Harry tried again, standing up and backing away from the table before he realized what he was doing. “I didn’t mean-- it was an accident! He just knocked his head! I’m sure any Muggle doctor can handle it! I made sure that he was okay before I left. I didn’t just  _ leave _ him there!”

Harry took another step and found his back against the wall. A rush of panic electrified his body. Snape hadn’t moved from the table, but his hands were white as they pressed into the table, and his face was a mask of rage.

“I-” Harry found his breath catching in his throat. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. His mind screamed at him to  _ do  _ something: fight or flight. The panic was bubbling in his chest, volatile and nearly bursting at the seams-

A cold spike of realization struck him.

_ This is what it felt like right before I attacked Vernon. _

It was this same dangerous feeling… of being cornered and powerless, of having no choice but to lash out. If Harry gave into that feeling and lashed out  _ here _ ,  _ now,  _ at  _ Snape _ … there wouldn’t be enough left of him to bury when the professor was through.

And, another part of Harry murmured quietly, he didn’t want to be like Voldemort… He didn’t want to solve all his problems with magic and violence. He was better than that. He couldn’t give in.

Harry closed his eyes and, with great mental effort, drew a slow steadying breath. He pushed that crackling, panicked feeling down, down, down… It felt like wrestling a bristling ball of living lightning, and he imagined closing it carefully within a heavy iron chest, draped in locks and chains.

That was a  _ dangerous _ feeling. He couldn’t let it control him again.

Trembling legs betraying his apprehension, Harry walked back to the table. He didn’t dare look up at Snape. The man hadn’t yet responded to Harry’s outburst, but he could sense his gaze drilling viciously into the top of Harry’s bowed head. He couldn’t bring himself to sit, but he stood behind the chair and gripped its back with white-knuckled hands.

“I-” Harry swallowed around the lump in his throat, voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry. Sir.”

Silence met this pronouncement, broken only by the occasional metallic clatter as the frying pan on the stove energetically flipped the bacon. The smell of the cooking, while enticing just a few minutes ago, now turned Harry’s stomach.

“Whatever scrap of guilt you are currently experiencing,” Snape said at last, venom dripping from every word, “Ensure that you  _ do not forget it. _ While it is impossible to make up for everything you’ve done, if I accomplish  _ one _ thing with you this summer, it will be to make sure you exhaust yourself trying.”

Harry nodded mutely, and then, remembering Snape’s tirade from earlier that morning, added solemnly: “Yes, sir.”

“I will need to send word to the Headmaster about this. Don’t move.”

Harry could hear the sharp clack of the man’s retreating bootsteps, followed by the slam of a door from somewhere within the house. Harry flinched at the noise. When there were no further sounds signaling Snape’s imminent return, he lowered himself shakily into the chair.

He leaned forward on the table and buried his face in his arms. He didn’t think it was possible, but things kept going from bad to worse. At this rate, Voldemort would Floo into the sitting room.

He had so many unanswered questions, and both his mind and his body felt restless and agitated. Even as he sat at the table, his mind was whirling and he couldn’t stop his leg from bouncing nervously.

Neither of them could leave the cottage, that’s what Snape had said, and no one else could enter. But Snape was talking to Dumbledore right now, so clearly it wasn’t a matter of hermetically sealed wards or worries about communications being traced. It was something else. Something to do with Harry himself. 

And no one could approach the Dursleys’ home…? What did that even  _ mean? _ Was Vernon so angry that he was waving a shotgun at any ‘freaky’ visitors, or did this have to do with Voldemort or the Death Eaters? Were they still hanging around Little Whinging? 

Harry had thought Malfoy and Macnair had found him rather quickly. They weren’t supposed to know where he lived over the summer, and yet minutes after he had left the wards, they had appeared as if ready and waiting.

Suddenly Harry thought of his strange dreams from a few days ago, in which he stared smugly at the street sign marking Privet Drive. Could that have anything to do with it…? No, he scoffed at himself, that was completely ridiculous. Just a coincidence. It’s not like Voldemort had a front-row seat to his dreams, despite their unusual connection.

Even so, the thought nagged at him.  _ Something _ had changed since Voldemort’s revival… His friends, allies, and even the professors had been treating him differently, and he was  _ going _ to find out why.

Nearly twenty minutes later, Snape swept back into the kitchen, looking just as livid as before but a touch less murderous. He didn’t even look at Harry as he moved toward the stove, where the enchanted frying pan had been patiently keeping breakfast warm. Snape upended the pan over a plate; bacon, eggs, mushrooms, and toast tumbled out into an untidy heap. He thrust the plate towards Harry, along with two more potion vials. He did not, Harry noticed, meet his eyes at all, as if the sight of Harry’s face alone would send him into a rage. 

“This one-” he said without preamble, pointing to the smaller of the two potions, “-is to mend your ribs. A variant of Skele-Gro, which I’m sure you recall. It must be taken with food.”

Harry grimaced, remembering the dreadful taste of the potion itself and the subsequent painful regrowth of his bones. He hoped that since none of his bones were missing, just cracked, the process would be shorter and less agonizing.

Snape then pointed to the other one, a pale concoction that seemed to be smoking. “And this is a nerve restorative. Take it before it cools.”

“A nerve restorative…?” Harry muttered the question almost to himself. His nerves were fine, right? Well, his  _ literal _ nerves, the ones inside his body, were fine. His ‘nerves’ in terms of his mood were a wreck, but he didn’t suppose that’s what this was meant to treat.

Snape heaved a massive sigh. “Yes, Potter, to  _ restore _ your  _ nerves. _ Clearly you didn’t pay attention in your Defense classes either. Your professor-” Snape seemed to find it difficult to apply this title to Barty Crouch Jr., “-taught you about the Unforgivable Curses, did he not? The Cruciatus Curse causes  _ nerve damage _ . You were subjected to the Cruciatus Curse, ergo, your nerves require restoration. It’s not complicated. Now stop complaining and take your potions. You will begin your lessons today, and it will be a waste of time for both of us if you’re still wallowing about.”

“I’m not-” Harry quickly closed his mouth, fighting the urge to snap back at his professor. He wasn’t  _ wallowing _ . He hadn’t complained or whined at all, and was perfectly capable of sitting through a  _ lesson. _ But instead of saying any of that, he just nodded stiffly and said: “Yes, sir.”

Snape exhaled forcefully through his nose, as if in smug approval. “Good. When you’re finished, clean yourself up and then come to the study.”

With that, Snape whirled and marched out of the room, black cloak billowing behind him.

_ Why _ did the man own so many huge black cloaks? Maybe he really  _ was _ a bat and had wings hidden under there…

Irritated, Harry picked at his breakfast. Despite having almost no appetite, he found himself eating almost the entire plate. The eggs were soft and fluffy, the bacon was perfectly crispy, and everything was remarkably well-seasoned. He supposed that he shouldn’t be too surprised, since a magical frying pan had made it. It would be stupid to enchant something to cook food  _ poorly. _

After such a lean summer (and a tumultuous 24 hours), a simple, solitary, hot breakfast was a luxury. And knowing what came next, Harry was more than happy to slowly savor each bite. He obediently downed the potions when he was done, wincing at their taste. The Skele-Gro variant made his ribs hurt even worse than before, but he supposed that meant it was working. The Cruciatus remedy, however, felt like taking a hot bath after a tough Quidditch practice… all his aches slowly ebbed away, and even his restlessly jittery feelings seemed soothed by the potion. He didn’t even realize how tense and sore he had still been until those feelings were gone.

He stood from the table, bringing his dish to the kitchen’s porcelain basin sink. The frying pan had already dropped itself in the sudsy water. The teacups and kettle, he noticed with regret, sat forgotten on the counter.

A stomach full of potions and a hot meal certainly went a long way, but Harry was still reluctant to find out what lessons Snape would be starting with him today. A warm cup of tea would have done a lot to settle his nerves. More to the point, a cup of tea would have given him a bit more time to himself before he had to seek out the professor. 

He sighed. There was no sense delaying; the cottage was small enough that Harry couldn’t evade Snape for long even if he had a mind to try it, and Snape was not known for his patience. Until he figured out what the hell was going on, it really was to his benefit to just keep his head down and follow the professor’s instructions.

Before lessons, though, Snape had told Harry to get himself cleaned up. He looked down at his hoodie: torn, smudged with dirt and blood, and smelling faintly of garbage.  _ That  _ instruction, Harry thought gratefully, he did not mind following at all. 


	7. Occlumency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has his first Occlumency lesson and obviously everything goes just fine.

Harry left the relative safety and comfort of the kitchen, moving down the hallway next to the sitting room. There were only so many rooms and doorways in the cottage; he had to assume that the washroom was down there.

He found four doorways. The two nearest the sitting room were open: a simple washroom and, across from it, a small bedroom. Glancing at the bed, it didn’t appear anyone had slept there recently. There wasn’t anything on the bedside table, though Harry’s school bag had been placed against the foot of the bed. Snape must have put it there at some point, and he guessed that this was where he would be staying while confined to the cottage. Sleeping in the chair had put a hell of a crick in his neck, and he was eager for an actual bed with a pillow.

Further along, facing each other across the hallway, were two other doors. Both were closed. Harry had a pretty good idea which was the study; he remembered Dumbledore and Snape’s voices coming from the right-hand door when they were arguing last night. The last door was probably another bedroom: Snape’s perhaps? A strange thought suddenly occurred to Harry… He had assumed that this was Dumbledore’s cottage, but if that wasn’t the case… could it actually belong to Snape?

No, no… He shook his head and immediately disregarded the thought. Clearly it was somewhere magically protected and known to both Snape and Dumbledore (some kind of safehouse maybe?), but wherever Snape spent his summers, it _definitely_ wasn’t in a pastel cottage by the sea. If the other closed door actually led to a dark, dungeon-like basement with damp stone walls and bubbling cauldrons, then _maybe_ he could see it… But the rest of the house, with its sunlit airy rooms, softly colored furniture, and seashell decorations, was the antithesis to the grouchy potions professor.

Snape probably hated it here, but Harry didn’t mind it one bit. With Snape gone and silently pouting in another room, the cottage was possibly the most peaceful place he’d ever been in his life, outside of Hogwarts.

He sank to a crouch and opened his school bag. The outside was just as scuffed and dirty as his clothes, and everything inside was a jostled mess, but thankfully nothing was missing or harmed. 

With a sigh of relief, Harry withdrew the photo album of his parents and lightly ran a palm over its cover. As much as the absence of his wand worried him, the loss of the photo album would have broken his heart completely. If it came down to it, he could get by with another wand. It wouldn’t be nearly as powerful against Voldemort without the matched twin cores, but he’d find a way to make it work. The photos, on the other hand, couldn’t be replaced at all. There was no store where he could go and get other photos of James and Lily Potter, no back-up version of lesser but workable quality for ‘just in case’.

He gently touched the photo from their wedding day and his parents smiled up at him, waving blissfully. Harry smiled back. He wanted to remember them like _this_ . Not screaming, like when the Dementors came near, and not ghostly, like when they emerged from Voldemort’s wand in the graveyard. Not ‘freakish’ and ‘delinquent’ like they were in Petunia’s stories, and not foolish teenagers like they were in Sirius’ and Lupin’s. Like _this…_ laughing newly-weds, joyfully looking towards their future together.

But they didn’t have much of a future after all. Harry’s forehead furrowed. Did _he_ have much of a future…? With Voldemort revived and the Death Eaters returning to power... with Dumbledore’s only spy outed and forced into hiding… with Harry wandless and vulnerable… what hope did he have of a long, peaceful life? He’d be lucky to live as long as _they_ did. He’d be lucky to have just one day like this, one day of total blissful joy, before Voldemort hunted him down.

With a heavy heart, Harry carefully closed the photo album and placed it on the bed along with his father’s Invisibility Cloak. He was immensely grateful that his panic-stricken self had had the presence of mind to shove a few spare clothes in the bag as well. Because they were clothes from his school trunk, not his summer wardrobe, they weren’t Dudley’s cast-offs and therefore actually fit. But because they were packed with such haste, they didn’t exactly match. There were two pairs of comfortable trousers and jeans, but the only shirts in the bag were a somewhat formal button-down, a colorful graphic tee, and another hoodie that was a bit too warm for the summer.

He grabbed the graphic tee and a fresh pair of pants, and hoped that Snape didn’t pick a fight over his wardrobe.

Across the hall in the washroom, Harry was relieved to find that all the amenities seemed to be in working order and surprisingly modern. Wizarding houses weren’t exactly known for their state-of-the-art facilities, but this washroom could have been plucked out of any Muggle home.

He started the shower running and stripped from his dirty clothes. The bruise balm, forgotten until now, tumbled out of his pocket. Oh… he supposed he ought to apply that sooner rather than later. Snape _did_ say to apply it to his neck and face himself. Steeling himself for what he’d see, Harry picked up the jar and approached the washroom mirror.

The face that stared back at him was almost unrecognizable. His pale skin was sharply accented by an impressive collection of bruises and scrapes: a wide abrasion across his cheek that was likely the result of Macnair shoving his face into the concrete… one black eye that was still slightly swollen… a cut lip… smears of oily muck from the alleyway.

His dark hair was matted to his head, caked in places with what appeared to be mud. On closer inspection, much of it was actually blood. He felt carefully along his head for a wound, wincing when his fingers found a sticky, shallow cut just behind his temple.

And his neck… around his neck were a set of dark, purpling bruises in the clear shape of two large hands.

With unsteady fingers, Harry unscrewed the lid of the jar and haphazardly applied the bruise balm. He tried to look in the mirror as little as possible. Whenever he did, shame rose up in him like a monstrous wave.

The bruises were a visual reminder of just how badly he’d messed everything up, and he couldn’t stand to look at them.

He didn’t know how much balm needed to be applied, or how long it needed to sit before being fully absorbed, so he stood at the sink and rubbed the ointment into his neck until the skin felt raw and he couldn’t see himself through the fog on the mirror. He wanted to erase the marks from his skin… He didn’t want to see them ever again.

Finally, he took off his glasses, stepped beneath the scalding hot stream of water, and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to know what violent colors were running down the drain.

He stood in the shower for what felt like a very long time. No matter how much he scrubbed, he couldn’t quite get the feeling of dirt off his skin. And no matter how often he warily squinted around the shower curtain, he couldn’t shake the sensation of malevolent hands suddenly reaching out and tightening around his neck.

When Harry finally emerged from the shower, his skin was bright pink and tender. He didn’t exactly feel _clean_ , but he did feel _better_.

He dried himself, dressed in his fresh clothes, and made a brief attempt to smooth his hair. It was, as always, a useless endeavor, but at least he tried.

Harry took another long look at himself in the mirror as the fog began to clear. The bruises at his neck had already faded somewhat, but to his eyes, they were as stark as ever. He wished that the weather were a little bit colder so he could reasonably wear his scarf. The breeze off the ocean brought some relief from the muggy heat, but not enough to justify such stifling clothing.

Harry suddenly wondered if Snape wore his long, heavy robes in all seasons for similar reasons. The life of a spy was a dangerous one. Maybe he had his own reminders he didn’t want to see…

With a shake of his head, he pushed this thought aside. If he was thinking this seriously about Snape’s wardrobe choices, maybe he’d suffered a brain injury too.

Speaking of which… he’d better report to Snape. He didn’t know how long it had been since their conversation in the kitchen, but in Snape’s eyes the answer was probably ‘too long’.

He approached the closed study door, took a deep breath, and knocked firmly.

Snape’s voice answered from within, impatience clear in his tone: “Enter.”

As Harry entered the study, Snape looked up from where he had been writing something at the desk. 

“Are you quite done lazing about this morning?” he drawled.

“I haven’t been _la_ -” Harry started, but bit back an indignant reply. “...I’m ready to begin my lessons now, _sir._ ”

Snape gave him a careful once-over, looking at Harry from head to toe. Despite a shower and a change of clothes, Harry knew he still looked like a mess. Wrinkled trousers, a t-shirt that was certainly not Hogwarts dress-code approved, and socks that had more patches than original cloth. His hair was _always_ a bit wild, and he was sure that at the moment it was akin to a bird’s nest.

At Hogwarts, when Harry arrived to the Potions classroom properly groomed and in his school robes, Snape still found reason to glare at him. As Harry stood just inside the doorway of the study, looking like a rumpled teenager… well, it was no small wonder the professor’s eyes narrowed as he finished his visual appraisal.

“I hope your mind is more orderly than your appearance, Potter. Today’s lessons will require your _utmost_ efforts. Only the most competent wizards are capable of mastering even the basics.”

He gave Harry a look that made it clear exactly how ‘competent’ he considered Harry.

“I’m ready, _sir,_ ” Harry insisted again, stubbornly. “Professor Lupin told me casting a Patronus was advanced magic too, but I did it anyway. Whatever you have to teach me, I’ll learn it.”

“Let us all hope you do, Potter.” 

Snape motioned him to the other chair in the room, positioned in front of the desk. Harry took a seat, feeling a familiar sense of bravado building inside him. He’d prove Snape wrong. He’d show him that he wasn’t some useless, swaggering teen. Just because he was young and famous (not that Harry _wanted_ to be famous) didn’t mean he wasn’t capable on his own merits.

“Today,” Snape began, locking Harry with a sharp gaze, “At the Headmaster’s request, you will begin learning the art of Occlumency. It is an obscure but powerful branch of magic dealing with the magical defense of the mind against intrusion. It relies on a _clear_ and _calm_ mind.” He paused here, his assessment of Harry’s clarity and calmness plain on his face. 

“There are very few truly skilled Occlumens in the world. I am one of them. The Headmaster had intended for you to begin this training at the start of term, but _regrettably_ , due to your reckless behaviors over the past 24 hours, it is obvious that we will need to commence immediately.”

“...Why do I need to learn Occlumency?” It seemed like a useful skill, to be sure, but Harry couldn’t understand the urgency behind him learning Occlumency as soon as possible.

“Because the Dark Lord is skilled in _Legilimency_ , Potter: the offensive counterpart to Occlumency. A Legilimens can penetrate the undefended mind. There is a powerful connection between the Dark Lord’s mind and your own already. He will, undoubtedly, attempt to utilize this connection to his benefit and your detriment. It is likely he has begun to do so already. If you do not learn to shield yourself against him, you will be as helpless as a gosling.”

“Oh…” A shudder went through Harry, and he brought a hand to the scar on his forehead. Was the pain he often felt there actually a mental attack from Voldemort? He hadn’t really put much thought into what caused the pain, and it made sense that after Voldemort’s return, it would be more frequent and intense. But was it something he could actually guard against?

“So you’re saying…” Harry continued slowly, “That Voldemort could _attack_ me with his mind?”

“ _Do NOT speak his name,_ ” Snape growled. “And _yes_ , Potter. He can do anything he wants to your mind, if you do not protect it. Attack you, control you, read your innermost thoughts, sense your every emotion, scramble your senses til you’re nothing but a drooling slug… He has been too focused on gathering his scattered Death Eaters and reasserting his power to make a dedicated mental assault just yet, but rest assured, Potter, he will soon turn his attention to you, and when he does, you had best hope you are prepared.”

Harry nodded, eyes wide. Voldemort could attack him even if he wasn’t physically present, even if Harry was hidden behind wards and magical concealments? Of _course_ he needed to learn Occlumency! Without it, it was like not knowing _Protego_ in a duel! It was like facing Voldemort unarmed! It was like… like… ...like not having his wand.

“Professor… Ah… I understand, I really do, but I don’t think I’ll be able to learn Occlumency. You see, in the scuffle with Malfoy and Macnair… well… I don’t have my wand.”

Snape clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. He reached into his robes, pulled something from an inner pocket, and extended it impatiently towards Harry.

It was... Harry’s wand.

Hardly believing his eyes, Harry reached carefully towards it. When his fingers connected and wrapped around its handle, he felt a surge of relief, his magical power igniting in a rush as if from a spark. It really was his wand!

“How did you- I thought I- Th-thank you, sir!” Harry couldn’t seem to string together a sentence more complex than that. All his thoughts were focused on the singular, overwhelming comfort of having his wand back. It wasn’t lost, or destroyed, or in the hands of the Death Eaters. It was here, in his hands, undamaged and whole. _He_ was whole. 

Harry let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding all this time. Everything was going to be okay if he had his wand.

“Occlumency,” Snape interrupted dispassionately, “does not _need_ a wand at all. One must act to shield the mind using willpower alone. But you will need it this summer regardless. Do _not_ lose track of it again. That is one of your greatest weapons and defenses against the Dark Lord.”

Harry nodded, and tucked the wand securely in his pocket. “Um, how _do_ I shield my mind then, if there isn’t an incantation?”

“It is similar to resisting the Imperius Curse. I understand you have already shown some aptitude in this regard. If you are to deflect a mental attack, your willpower will need to be greater than that of the attacking Legilimens. Now,” Snape locked eyes with Harry, “We are going to assess whether your infuriating stubbornness actually serves a purpose. Brace yourself, Potter, and block me. _Legilimens!_ ”

Before Harry had time to react, he found himself plunged into a memory.

_Uncle Vernon, striding across the lawn of Privet Drive, face splotchy with rage..._

_Harry apologizing, turning towards him and dropping the pruning shears…_

It felt much like his nightmares: he was reliving this memory, each sight and sound as clear and vivid as the real thing. But, unlike his dreams, there was a strange prickling sensation that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Though he couldn’t turn around to look while locked into the memory, he had the uncomfortable sense that someone was standing just behind him, watching.

_Snape._

_No!_ Harry thought wildly, _I’m not going to let Snape see this!_

He tried to push the memory away, or close his eyes against it, or _something_ , but he was trapped, helpless to change the memory’s course or escape from it.

_Vernon was yelling now: “I’m sure you think it’s a funny joke, don’t you, embarrassing us like this. After all we’ve done for you…!”_

Harry thrashed harder against the mental shackles that seemed to bind him here. It was one thing to be trapped in a nightmare, when the only one who had to relive the memories was himself. It was another thing entirely for _Snape_ to bear witness to the embarrassment of his home life. And for it to be _this_ memory, of all things! He had to stop it… But how? Snape had said it was like resisting the Imperius Curse… He tried to draw on the willpower he had once learned to harness against magical compulsion, but Snape’s hold on him felt far stronger than anything he’d experienced before.

_“And you repay us with this kind of_ willful _disrespect-” Vernon continued furiously._

Though he strained with all his might, Harry couldn’t break free. The panic rose in his chest. Snape was going to see what Uncle Vernon had done… He was going to see how weak and unstable Harry was. He was going to know exactly how Harry had gotten those bruises around his neck. And Harry was helpless to do anything about it. He was frozen here, pinned like an insect in his own memory. He was trapped. He was… He was…

An icy shiver rose up Harry’s spine, cold as a granite gravestone on a foggy June night.

The breath caught in his throat...

And as suddenly as it had begun, the memory ended.

Harry found himself back in the chair in Snape’s study, heart racing, a cold sweat dripping down his neck. His hands firmly gripped the arms of the chair, hiding the fact that they were trembling.

Had he succeeded…? Had he forced Snape from his mind? He felt a small thrill of victory; he had stopped Snape from seeing the worst of the memory after all!

There was a long sigh from the other side of the desk, and Harry looked up at Snape sharply. The man was looking down his nose at him, literally and figuratively. His heart sank. That was not the look of success.

“A disappointing first attempt. You will need to try harder than that, Potter.”

“I didn’t…” He swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat. “I didn’t push you out?”

“Of course not! Did that feel like a victory to _you_? I simply grew tired of watching your uncle’s rant, gratifying though it was, and I withdrew. You will know when you’ve managed it correctly. I felt no resistance from you whatsoever. Try again. Empty your mind, focus your will, and _resist!_ _Legilimens!_ ”

He was thrown back into the memory once more, disoriented from the whiplash.

_Vernon was close to his face, growling: “Making a mess of our hedges for the whole neighborhood to laugh about- like we’re some sort of hooligans-”_

_No!_ Harry thought fiercely. If he couldn’t push Snape out, maybe he could at least push him _away…_ He thought back to the year before, when Barty Crouch Jr. masqueraded as Moody and had them practice resisting the Imperius Charm… He sought out that same feeling: that stubborn, righteous core that refused to bend or bow to anyone else’s will. It was much harder to find when he was distracted by the memory of his uncle’s face, screaming at him. Compared to the Imperius Curse, Legilimency felt far more invasive, and it took all his focus to reassert the smallest sliver of control. Bracing himself, he summoned up all the strength he could muster and threw his will into one forceful _shove-_

The scene shifted, and Harry felt a momentary flash of victory that crumbled instantly to despair.

_He was in the graveyard, body bound against the gravestone of Tom Riddle Senior, chains pressing painfully against his arms and legs. Voldemort stood before him, rising from the cauldron, laughing like a hyena._

Harry felt himself freezing up, the remembered cold spreading through his body. He felt weak. It was like being surrounded by Dementors… all the warmth, joy, and strength bled out of him to be replaced by a helpless, empty surrender.

_Slithering like a snake, another chain moved across his neck--_

Had that actually happened, in the graveyard…? Harry couldn’t remember. All he knew was that his body wouldn’t move, his mind was fumbling to maintain control, and a tightening pressure around his neck was slowly cutting off his oxygen. Was it a chain? Was it Vernon’s hands? Did it really make a difference?

_The vice around his neck tightened painfully, and he couldn’t catch his breath… He had to break free. He had to fight. He had to-_

**_No_ ** _! I won’t hurt anyone else!_

And then Harry was back in Snape’s study once more, sprawled on the floor on his hands and knees, gasping for breath. He brought a protective hand to his neck, trying to banish the feeling of phantom hands that still lingered there.

He hadn’t succeeded in pushing Snape out of his mind, he knew that. The man had withdrawn of his own accord again. Harry _had_ diverted him from one memory to another, but right now, that hardly felt like a good thing.

“What the _hell_ was that, Potter?”

The professor’s voice sounded strained, and when Harry lifted his head to meet his eyes, the expression on his face was somewhere between ‘disturbed’ and ‘outraged’.

“...Sir?” The word came out hoarsely.

“You managed to put your Gryffindor stubbornness to good use and redirect me, but then you simply gave up! Laziness punctuated by acute bursts of effort won’t be enough in Occlumency! It requires sustained focus! And to conjure such an _abhorrent_ false memory shield-- your cheek truly knows no bounds-”

Harry leapt to his feet, shell-shock replaced by fury. “I only learned that Occlumency even _existed_ about ten minutes ago! I’m trying my best! Believe me, I don’t want Voldemort poking around in my head and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him out-”

“ **DO NOT speak his name-** ”

“ **I’LL CALL HIM WHATEVER THE HELL I WANT!** ” Harry roared in response. That uncontrolled, volatile anger was rising in him, and he couldn’t find the will to control it. “He’s the one who killed _my_ parents! He left this scar on _my_ forehead! He’s tried to kill me or capture me or possess me for the past four years of my life! I’ll call him _Sir Tom-Cat Riddlidinks_ if I want!”

He felt a headache pounding at his temples and his vision was swimming, but he couldn’t stop.

“You think I _wanted_ to remember the graveyard? I didn’t _choose_ it for your entertainment! And it wasn’t any ‘false’ memory-- I’m sick and tired of people not believing me about what happened that night! I _saw_ him, I saw what he did, I saw him come back and he-- _aaAAAUGH!_ ”

The headache suddenly exploded into white-hot agony. His scar-- It felt like someone was pressing a burning poker into his scar and _twisting_ -

Harry was dimly aware of a voice, muffled and far away, that seemed to be calling his name. But another voice, sounding much closer and clearer, was cackling with a familiar, hyena-like laugh.

He pressed both his hands against his scar, as if clamping down on a gushing wound. Someone was pulling roughly at him, trying to move his hands away, trying to untangle him from his curled position on the floor…

_NO!_ He could barely see, hear, or sense anything beyond the splintering pain in his scar, but he wasn’t going to let anyone manhandle him. He’d had _enough_ of strange hands grabbing him.

A fresh wave of pain lanced through his scar, and he cried out, unable to focus on anything other than his own hands on his forehead and the gleeful, high-pitched laugh that echoed in his ears.

More voices came into focus: jeers, laughs, shouted incantations… and another voice, quieter than the rest, pleading fearfully and sobbing.

Harry was aware of a potion vial being pressed urgently to his lips. As if from miles away, there seemed to be yet another voice, shouting at him, instructing him to drink it. Potion… He was supposed to drink a potion…? If it was a potion, it was probably from Snape... right…? And even though Snape was an arsehole and one of the most obnoxious people alive, a small part of Harry’s short-circuited brain acknowledged that his potions _did_ help… If there was _any_ chance Snape’s potions could stop this agony, he’d take it.

Through the fog of pain, he unclenched his grimacing jaw enough to accept the potion vial. The elixir was immediately poured into his mouth, and though he choked and coughed, he managed to drink most of it.

The effect was instantaneous. 

The cruel laughter and horrible screaming quieted. The pain in his scar began to fade. The strained muscles of his body slowly relaxed. The blinding haze cleared from his vision. Harry realized, as his senses began to fade entirely, that he was slipping into what promised to be a blissfully blank unconsciousness. He welcomed it, and he didn’t even care that he was doubled over on the scratchy woven rug in Snape’s study.

And crouched above him, long hair in disarray, was Severus Snape. His expression was taut, dark eyes watching him with razor-sharp focus and genuine worry. Harry had _never_ seen Snape look like that… And somehow, that concerned, watchful expression was a strange and unexpected comfort.

“Thank you,” Harry whispered, and then he knew no more.


	8. Agreements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape and Harry have a reasonable conversation, and Snape lays down some new rules.

Harry felt like he was floating deep within the ocean. Waves churned distantly above him, their sounds muffled and strange. It was almost like being back in the Triwizard Cup, swimming in the dark and murky waters of the Black Lake, but with none of the worry. Just the steady pressure of the water all around him, and the thrumming of its invisible currents in his ears. His body felt weightless, gently suspended in some pleasant world without gravity, sensation, thoughts, or pain.

But the crashing of the waves was growing louder… He was being drawn to the surface, and he dreaded what awaited him there.

The sounds became more distinct… They weren’t waves at all, but voices, though they ebbed and flowed like water: churning restlessly, slowly building to a dull roar, crashing thunderously, sinking back into stillness, murmuring quietly… He recognized them and could just make out the words, but his groggy mind couldn’t piece together their meaning. Just like water, slipping through his fingers...

Harry opened his eyes. The dim, rosy light of a sunset filtered through the window, illuminating an unfamiliar room with smooth stucco walls and pale beechwood furnishings. The room swam, and it wasn’t just because he didn’t have his glasses. The remnants of a powerful headache throbbed at his temples, and his scar ached painfully.

Moving carefully, Harry sat up and, after a brief search, located his glasses on a bedside table. As the room came into focus, so too did his memories.

This room wasn’t _completely_ unfamiliar… It was the small bedroom in the seaside cottage. Yes, there was his bag at the foot of the bed. But he was _in_ the bed… he didn’t remember going to sleep. And he was still in his day clothes. 

The last thing he remembered was going into Snape’s study for lessons that morning… He was going to learn a new type of magic, what was it called… yes, Occlumency! Snape had been testing his mental defenses… He had pried into Harry’s memories… And then… And then……

Harry buried his face in his hands with a groan. He didn’t know what had come over him… He had _lost it_ at Snape. The man must have been absolutely furious… and then, worse still, Harry had collapsed because of his scar. As if the professor didn’t have enough reason to mock and despise him already, he’d gotten into a juvenile shouting match and then _fainted._

Why couldn’t Harry just get through _one single day_ without getting himself into trouble, infuriating those around him, or getting hurt? 

As he contemplated how he’d possibly apologize for the morning’s events, Harry’s ears suddenly refocused on the quiet voices down the hall.

“I do not think he knows, Albus,” Snape was saying quietly. 

Harry eased out of the bed and pressed his ear to the door, straining to hear. Snape was in his study, and though it sounded like the other door was also closed, the cottage was too small for the words not to carry anyway.

He couldn’t hear the Headmaster’s reply, but he _could_ detect the faint crackling of a fire.

“No, I’m quite sure,” Snape was saying now. “But the timing was exactly the same. I felt the summons at the precise moment that he-”

The professor was cut off by a low, unintelligible murmur and the fire crackled a little louder.

“If you’re so worried, you can come dote on him yourself,” Snape responded in clipped tones. “I assure you the boy is perfectly fine. I have been checking on him regularly-”

Harry flushed. Snape had been _checking on him,_ like a nanny looking in on a napping toddler? His pride couldn’t bear the thought. He didn’t even want to _think_ about who had surely put him into bed and removed his glasses.

“ _Yes,_ Albus,” the professor said irritably. “I’m not certain of the exact dosage, since he coughed up half the potion, but he should be awake before too long. You don’t need to worry; I haven’t poisoned your precious Potter.”

There was another quiet response from Dumbledore.

“...Of course I will, Headmaster. I told you I would. I understand how-- …… _No_ , I will not _coddle_ him. He’s a teenager, not an _infant_. I-”

Snape’s voice was rising. Whatever Dumbledore had said seemed to have struck a nerve. There was a tense exchange in overlapping, furious whispers that Harry couldn’t understand at all, and then a sudden silence so complete, Harry thought that Snape had finally warded the door against prying ears.

But just when he was ready to creep back into the bed and give up on hearing more, Snape finally responded, in a voice so soft Harry barely recognized it.

“...You know the answer to that, Albus. How could I ever forget? ...Yes. _...Yes_ , I give you my word. ......We’ll speak more tomorrow. ......Yes. Good night.”

There was a roaring _whoosh_ , much like a departing Floo, and then the sounds of a fire being put out.

Harry scrambled back into the bed as quietly as possible; it would be disastrous if Snape caught him eavesdropping. He pulled the blanket back over his legs and took off his glasses, hoping to give the impression that he’d only just awoken. Moments later, there were footsteps in the hall, and then a light knock at the door.

“Uh-” Harry cleared the sleep from his throat and called out uncertainly. “Come in?”

Snape opened the door, but remained in the hallway. Harry couldn’t be sure without his glasses, but it seemed that the man’s eyes swept across him in a quick but thorough visual assessment.

“You’re awake,” he stated levelly. “Good. Come to the kitchen. You and I need to have a conversation.”

He turned without another word, leaving the door open as he walked swiftly down the hall.

Harry let out a slow, shaky breath. The professor had seemed relatively calm, especially considering what Harry had shouted at him only that morning. But Snape’s moods were fickle, prone to sudden flashes of anger at the slightest hint of disrespect. And it seemed that just about everything Harry did or said (or _didn’t_ do and _didn’t_ say) were disrespectful according to Snape. By the time Harry walked the few short meters to the kitchen, the man might already be in a temper because Harry had taken too long. Certainly he wasn’t pleased with Harry’s pacing in getting to his study that morning… 

He’d better get in there quickly, then, before Snape’s apparent good will ran out.

As he slid out of bed and put on his glasses again, Harry thought about how he’d apologize. It shouldn’t be any surprise that Snape was at his wit’s end with him, after everything that had happened…

It was starting to sink in that Harry really _would_ be at this cottage for the remainder of the summer. He was both relieved and apprehensive at this realization. The thought of not returning to the Dursleys again for a whole year (or maybe _ever_ , if the Death Eaters knew where he lived now) was a huge weight off his shoulders.

However, the thought of spending the next two months here, cooped up with Snape of all people, was hardly better. At least he was positive that Snape didn’t intend to kill him. If he did, Harry would already be dead or in Voldemort’s clutches (which would be the same thing, really). Besides which, Snape had given Harry back his wand, and if the man was truly his enemy, he’d have kept it hidden or destroyed it. And…

Harry traced the edge of a bruise on his forearm, already rapidly healing after the application of Snape’s balm.

Whatever his motivations, Snape had taken the time to tend to Harry’s wounds, which was _certainly_ more than could be said for any of the Dursleys.

Dumbledore had obviously tasked Snape with his welfare and tutoring… but the same charge had been given to the Dursleys, so it’s not like that alone meant much. But so far, despite how atrocious Harry had been, Snape seemed to at least be _trying_. 

This grudging truce deserved a fair shake. If Snape was able to swallow his pride and set aside their long history of animosity for the next few weeks, Harry could too.

There was nothing else for it. Harry would have to apologize. He already knew how to be contrite, duck his head, obediently do his chores, and pacify volatile tempers… and _here_ , maybe those efforts would actually make a difference. Maybe, for just a few weeks, if they really tried… the two of them could manage to get along.

Determined, Harry strode into the kitchen.

Snape was seated at the small kitchen table, a steaming cup of tea cradled in his right hand. Harry noted that he seemed to be holding his left arm rigidly in his lap.

A second cup of tea was placed before the other chair, along with a plain turkey & cheese sandwich.

Harry wordlessly took a seat, quickly trying to assess the professor’s mood. His expression was impossible to read. Or maybe it was just that Harry didn’t really know how to understand what he was seeing. He couldn’t think of any other time he’d sat this close to the potions master or studied his face this carefully. At Hogwarts, Harry kept his distance, and Snape’s range of emotions was… limited, to say the least. He was always somewhere between ‘vaguely peeved’ and ‘absolutely furious’, and what was the point in learning to distinguish between them when one poorly-diced beetle was enough to ratchet him all the way to the stop of the scale?

Harry, therefore, had no means to interpret the expression now on Snape’s face, which was neither ‘peeved’, nor ‘furious’, nor anywhere in between. Somehow more nervous than before, Harry folded his hands in his lap and cleared his throat.

“Um… I’m sorry, professor.”

A look of mild surprise flickered across Snape’s face, and Harry felt encouraged now that the man’s expression had returned to recognizable territory.

“I… I know that you’re not pleased with me,” Harry went on. “I messed up-- I _know_ that-- and I’ve made things harder for you, and Professor Dumbledore, and… well, everyone, really. I don’t have a good explanation for why I acted the way that I did, but I promise I’ll try my best to learn Occlumency and behave myself from here on out. Sir.”

Harry forced himself to maintain eye contact, even though Snape’s piercing, unblinking gaze was nearly unbearable. It was only because of this that Harry caught the briefest flash of sorrow in his eyes.

“...Thank you, Mr. Potter.” Snape slowly placed his teacup on the table and steepled his fingers. 

And-- Harry was _sure_ he wasn’t imagining it-- Snape’s left hand seemed just a touch stiffer and less coordinated than his right. The subtle difference caught Harry’s attention because he recognized those sorts of movements and knew what they surely meant… That was how Harry moved when he was hiding a cracked rib, or a twisted ankle, or a throbbing headache. A careful slowness, as if the injured body part was marked as ‘ _FRAGILE - HANDLE WITH CARE_ ’... and along with it, there was a secretiveness, because showing weakness was dangerous when all around you were enemies, just waiting for an opportunity to strike.

_Snape hurt his arm_ , Harry thought, confused. _And recently. His arm wasn’t hurting earlier today._

And a moment later, another thought came to him: _He hasn’t healed it yet. ...Why?_

Harry realized suddenly that he’d been staring at Snape’s arm just a moment too long. He looked up and met Snape’s eyes, embarrassed to see the man had been following his gaze. His eyes narrowed.

“Um!” Harry interjected awkwardly, hoping to change the subject quickly enough to avoid a rebuke. “What happened, earlier? Uh... I guess I’ve been out all day, huh?”

“What happened, exactly, is not a question I can readily answer. As to your prolonged unconsciousness, that was my doing.”

Snape paused, and Harry stared at him in bewilderment. The man seemed ever so slightly flustered.

“The onset of your… episode was rather sudden and severe,” he continued, expression troubled. “It was clear that you were experiencing a great deal of pain in your scar, and I suspected it was precisely the sort of Legilimency attack I had warned you about. As you were yet unable to Occlude your mind against it, the safest and swiftest solution was Dreamless Sleep.”

Harry recognized the name. Madam Pomfrey had given him that very same potion at the end of last year, in the hospital wing. Back then, it had put him straight into a deep sleep as well.

“Unfortunately,” Snape continued, “as your situation was urgent, I did not have the time to administer a properly calibrated dose.” Harry’s face must have betrayed his confusion, because Snape sighed and continued: “You drank too much Dreamless Sleep, Potter. You weren’t meant to sleep the entire day. That was my mistake.”

Harry blinked at him. That _almost_ sounded like an apology. At the very least, it was an admission of fault. Maybe, he thought, that’s why Snape looked so near to panic as Harry passed out. He’d realized his mistake too late, and he was worried he’d put the Golden Boy into a potion-induced coma.

“Uh, don’t worry about it, sir,” Harry mumbled, not sure how he was meant to respond. “I appreciate what you did. Really.”

Snape just ‘hmm’d in response before turning to more pressing matters. 

“Professor Dumbledore and I have concluded that this morning’s incident was likely not an intentional attack, but rather an activation of your mental connection due to a surge of the Dark Lord’s emotions. While this particular example was clearly more extreme, the Headmaster informs me that this is not the first time you have experienced this phenomenon. On multiple occasions last year, you simultaneously felt pain in your scar and had visions of the Dark Lord’s deeds when he experienced strong emotions. If that was the case today, tell me, Potter… What did you see?”

There was an unmistakable note of hunger in Snape’s voice. He leaned forward slightly, as if he had been waiting the entire day to ask this question, and the moment had finally arrived. Unnerved, Harry ran his tongue over his dry lips and tried his best to answer.

“I… I didn’t _see_ anything… But I could hear him laughing: Volde- ...He Who Must Not Be Named.” Harry looked down at his hands, clenched in his lap. “There were other voices too. Death Eaters, probably. A whole lot of them, casting spells and shouting. And…”

_And I heard someone screaming._

He tried to form the words, but they stuck in his throat.

_I heard someone dying._

But he hadn’t. Not _really._ It wasn’t _real._ It _wasn’t._ It was just a mishmash of nightmares and memories from the graveyard, stirred up from the Occlumency lesson. It was his imagination. It was like all those other dreams from the last few weeks… Just stress and bad memories and none of it was _real..._ ...Was it?

“...And that’s all,” Harry said quietly.

“Did you sense his emotions?”

_Yes. Joy. Elation. Bloodlust. Disdain._

“No,” he lied.

“Hmm…” Snape mumbled, almost to himself. “Perhaps the visions are strongest during sleep. That would make sense, of course… No matter...”

“Professor…” Harry wasn’t sure how to voice his question. He chanced a look up at Snape, who had brought a hand to his chin and was staring thoughtfully out the darkened window.

“Yes, Potter, spit it out,” he drawled lazily, mind elsewhere.

“Last year…” Harry pushed the words out, hoping they’d make more sense out loud to Snape than they did in his own head. “Well, last year, when I was having visions and my scar was hurting… Professor Dumbledore said that what I saw was _probably_ real, but he wasn’t sure... Do you… Do _you_ think they're real?”

Snape didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned and refocused his dark eyes on Harry’s face, as if actually seeing him for the first time since he’d entered the kitchen. Harry wasn’t sure what the man saw there, but his expression softened. 

Or maybe he was just tired. ‘Soft’ wasn’t an adjective one applied to the facial expressions of Severus Snape.

“No,” he answered at last, voice low. “It is impossible to say for certain. The unique connection between your mind and the Dark Lord’s is a mystery, but I know that most true visions are imprecise at best. Even more so when those visions might be influenced, or concocted entirely, by Legilimency.”

Harry wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that those screams were merely fabrications borne of the strange and twisted influence of Voldemort’s mind on his own. He wanted to believe that there was a possibility, however small, that these visions were falsehoods.

But there was something in Snape’s voice that Harry couldn’t help but recognize. It was a subtle tone he had heard in the voices of many adults over the years, usually when they were telling him not to worry about something. It was false reassurances plastered smoothly over deep and troubled uncertainty. It was a lie.

His heart sank. He knew, in that moment, that these visions were real, and Snape knew it too.

“This incident with your scar is concerning to say the least,” Snape was saying now, his voice returning to its typical crisp tenor. “If the Dark Lord is able to have this strong of an effect unintentionally, as I believe this was, I should not like to see what would happen if he launched a genuine mental attack. I will ensure that you master Occlumency before we find out. However, if today’s sorry attempt has been any indication, some… adjustments will be necessary to your studies. Tomorrow you will begin a new schedule. Mark me, Potter: you _will_ put your utmost efforts into this. I will not tolerate your typical skiving off of responsibilities-- do you understand? This is no longer your summer vacation, and your weeks here will _not_ resemble your time spent at home.”

Despite the heavy tension in the room, the absurdity of this statement forced Harry to stifle an involuntary bubble of laughter. He knew Snape had meant it as a threat, but if the man truly meant what he said, nothing could have reassured Harry more.

Snape glared at him. “Have I said something _amusing_ , Potter?”

“No, sir. Sorry.”

“As I was saying,” he continued irritably, “you will be adhering to a strict daily schedule from now on. You will not leave the property under _any_ circumstances. You will not have any communications with your friends--”

“ _WHAT?!”_ Harry leaned forward in his chair, equal parts outraged and despairing, his good will towards Snape evaporating in an instant.

“Sit DOWN, Potter! You will NOT be contacting your friends,” Snape repeated firmly, “ _until_ such time as the Headmaster determines it is safe to do so. You will remember that at present, you are a _significant_ security risk to everyone around you! _Fortunately_ for you, you cannot endanger me or my operations any more than you already have. Therefore, much as it _thrills_ me, you _cannot_ see or speak with anyone else!”

Harry glumly sat back in his chair. As much as he wanted to protest, he knew it was true. Ron and Hermione had already been forced to censor their correspondences _before_ all this. Now that the Death Eaters seemed to know about Privet Drive, and Dumbledore himself didn’t consider it safe to be around Harry, it only made sense that he would need to stay away from his friends.

“Okay. I understand,” Harry muttered, arms crossed.

“You understand, _sir,_ ” Snape corrected.

“Yes, _sir._ ”

“...You will practice Occlumency each day, including lessons, reading, and assignments,” Snape resumed, keeping his tone level even through gritted teeth. “If your scar hurts again, you will report to me at _once_ \--”

Snape held up a hand to cut off Harry’s protests before he’d even opened his mouth. Harry’s cheeks were flushed. He was supposed to just… come whining to Snape whenever he had a headache?!

“Mr. Potter, this is not up for discussion! Your scar connects you intrinsically to the Dark Lord, and the pain you feel in your scar is a sign that that connection is active. It is critical that, as we work to block that connection through Occlumency, we are aware of when the Dark Lord is reaching across it, intentionally or otherwise. You will therefore report these occurrences to me. _Anytime_ your scar hurts-- do you understand me?”

It all made sense logically when Snape said it that way, but Harry still didn’t think the man would appreciate hearing about every little twinge and ache from his scar. But what choice did he have? He had promised himself he was going to try. He nodded.

“Finally--” Snape stood and moved to stand beside Harry’s chair. He held out a palm. “Your arm, Potter.”

Warily, Harry held out his right arm. The professor lightly took Harry’s wrist in his hand. The other hand produced a small circular object from his robes. A few murmured words from Snape, and the object leapt to Harry’s arm.

Harry jerked back his arm in surprise. Now secured firmly around his wrist was a thin, braided cuff bracelet. It was made of softly gleaming silver, engraved with strings of Latin. Experimentally, Harry tugged at it. The fit was snug, but not tight or uncomfortable. And even if Harry hadn’t seen it happen with his own eyes, he’d have known the bracelet had been magicked onto his wrist: it was too small to slide off and had no clasps or hooks.

As he twisted his wrist this way and that, equal parts confused and aggravated, Snape returned to his own chair.

“ _That_ is a special Portkey,” Snape announced.

Harry looked up at him with alarm, his heartbeat stuttering. “ _A Por--_ ”

“Yes,” he interrupted. “But it is unlike the other Portkeys you have used in the past. It will not activate until the code word is spoken. It is for emergencies _only_. If, for some reason, the safety of Shell Cottage is compromised, you will use it to escape. It will take you to a safe location.”

“Where will it take me?” Harry asked, unable to disguise the nervousness in his voice.

“A safe, _secret_ location, Mr. Potter. It will be a useless precaution if the Dark Lord is able to read your mind and determine the location. For your own safety, you cannot know.”

“Um…” 

Harry looked down at the bracelet again, aware that he was holding his wrist like a bomb that might go off at any moment. The idea that a Portkey was now attached to his body, and that it might suddenly take him to a totally unknown place, left him feeling uneasy.

Snape tapped the table with a finger, resummoning Harry’s attention. “The activation word is _Praesidio_. Repeat after me so I know you have the pronunciation correct-- For heaven’s sake, Potter! It’s not _active_ yet, stop fussing and repeat after me. _Praesidio!_ ”

“ _Praesidio,”_ Harry muttered without enthusiasm.

“ _Pr_ ** _ae_** _sidio_ , Potter. Again.”

“ _Praesidio…!”_

“Good. That should suffice. Now, hold it out and keep still--”

Snape reached across the table with his wand and pressed it to the silver bracelet. He murmured a short incantation and the inscriptions flared with light for a moment before fading. Harry withdrew his arm, holding it against his chest. Though having an active Portkey on his wrist was unsettling, the bracelet seemed to radiate a soft warmth that Harry found comforting despite himself.

The professor downed his remaining tea and stood from the table.

“I will leave your new schedule out for you in the morning. For now, eat your dinner and go straight to bed.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied without looking up.

Snape lingered at the table for a moment more, and Harry almost thought he was going to say something else. He seemed to think better of it and, with a shake of his head, retreated from the kitchen, the sharp clicking of his boots fading down the hallway.


	9. Summer Syllabus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's summer studies begin in earnest.

Harry sat at the kitchen table for a long time after Snape left, slowly eating his sandwich and drinking his tea. Every minute he spent in this cottage, the more questions he seemed to have, and none of them had answers.

How had Snape injured his arm? Harry had been unconscious nearly the whole day, so any number of things could have happened, but Snape clearly had access to healing balms and potions. Why hadn’t he done something about it? Had he used all his stores on Harry, with none left for himself? No, that couldn’t be right… If this cottage had the supplies to make turkey sandwiches, _surely_ it had the supplies to whip up a few simple potions.

And what was this special Portkey all about? Sure, Harry had just been jumped by Lucius and Macnair, but he was just wandering around Little Whinging like an idiot. It’s not like Death Eaters were going to come pouring into a hidden, magically warded cottage when they didn’t even know that Harry was here. Had the situation already become that dangerous with Voldemort back? Was Harry _ever_ going to be able to leave the safety of magically protected locations, and were any of them truly impenetrable?

And why the hell was Snape being so _nice_ to him? 24 hours ago, Harry had spit in the man’s face and tried to punch him. There was no way Snape had decided to let it go. He still hated Harry’s father, James, for things he’d done back when they were students together at Hogwarts, and that was decades ago. It had only been a single day… Why hadn’t Snape locked him in his room, or forced him to clean the entire cottage with a toothbrush, or at the _very_ least sent him to bed without supper?

His mind whirled, questions upon questions buzzing around his head like a thousand angry hornets.

When Harry finally did go to bed, he had a pounding headache. Despite spending so many hours unconscious during the day, he didn’t feel rested at all, and he had no idea how long he’d spent at the table, lost in his thoughts.

As Harry approached the hallway, he saw that a light still shone under the closed door of the study. Snape must still be awake, then… Harry didn’t know if he had a curfew, but he figured it was probably best not to run into the professor again tonight. As quietly as possible, he slipped into the washroom. 

At least, he thought with relief, there had been a fresh toothbrush in here. Toiletries were something he hadn’t thought to pack when he left Privet Drive. Neither had he thought to bring pajamas... But even with the breeze off the ocean, it was a warm night. He’d just have to sleep in his skivvies and hope Snape knocked before entering.

Evening ablutions complete, Harry crept back to the spare bedroom and gratefully slipped under the covers. He placed his glasses and wand on the bedside table, lay back, and closed his eyes. It was strange, being here… The sounds of the cottage were completely different from Privet Drive, or the dorms at Hogwarts, or even the Hospital Wing (which, unfortunately, was familiar to Harry as well). If Snape was still awake, Harry heard no evidence of his movements. The house was mostly stucco, and so it didn’t have timbers to creak and settle. No one was snoring or shifting in their sleep, and there probably wasn’t another human soul for miles around. 

The only audible sound at all was the low, constant murmur of waves shushing against the sand. Harry found it calming… It almost sounded like the inhales and exhales of a great slumbering giant.

As he listened, Harry found his own breaths slowing and lengthening in time with the waves. His mind was practically overflowing with questions, worries, and the sorts of memories that rear their ugly heads late at night, but if he just listened to the waves and breathed, somehow all those thoughts became just a little quieter. Slowly, wave by wave and breath by breath, he drifted off to sleep. 

* * *

  
  


_“Mr. Potter.”_

_As if in slow motion, Harry turned towards the voice, dreading already what he would see._

_And there he was, strolling down the dark and narrow alley: Lucius Malfoy, a Cheshire-cat grin spreading across his face. The streetlamp, flickering weakly, glinted off his too-white teeth._

_Harry tried to raise his wand, but it was like trying to move through quicksand. His heart stuttered in panic. His arm was barely moving-- Lucius was rapidly approaching-- He wasn’t going to be quick enough--_

_“Mr. Potter…” Lucius hissed again._

_His grin became impossibly large, stretching his mouth unnaturally wide, and then wider still, til the man’s face seemed to be composed solely of long, white, shining teeth…_

_No… Not just_ _**teeth** … they were _ _**fangs**. _

_Lucius’ entire form grew and lengthened. Sickly green scales sprouted up across his undulating body, and still that grinning mouth shone brightly in the dark, even though the streetlamp had melted away into the shadows._

_Harry stumbled back and found his foot splashing into ankle-deep water. Confused, he cast a quick glance behind him, and realized he was in the rounded stone tunnels beneath Hogwarts… the labyrinth surrounding the Chamber of Secrets._

_“Misssster… Potter…”_

_Lucius’ voice was distorted, serpentine… It was Parseltongue._

_And as Harry whipped forward again, he saw that the form of Lucius was gone entirely. In its place was the basilisk, its massive maw 20 feet above him and swaying gently._

_“Missssssster… Potter…… I’ve been sssssearching for you…”_

_The manic fanged grin grew and grew, and a low, cruel laugh began to issue from the basilisk’s mouth._

_Pain suddenly erupted throughout his body, as if he had been bitten by the basilisk once again: acidic, tenacious pain that seemed to consume him from the inside out._

_He writhed, and though he tried to scream, no sound came out._

_All he could hear was the deep, hissing laughter echoing all around him…_

* * *

Harry awoke and sat up with a start. He scrambled to put on his glasses and gazed around the dim room nervously. Pale grey light was filtering in through the window; it must be nearly dawn. By this faint light, Harry could clearly see that neither Lucius Malfoy, nor the basilisk, nor any other enemy was in the room with him. 

Even so, and feeling ridiculous for doing it, Harry got up and crept carefully around the room. He peered under the bed, inside the armoire, and outside the open window. It’s not like he really expected to find a Death Eater or the King of Serpents hiding under furniture, but all the same, it made him feel better just to check.

Absent-mindedy, he rubbed at the scar on his forehead. It was aching slightly. In fact, his entire body felt a bit sore, but that was probably just the result of the healing process, he reasoned. Nothing unusual. And whose head _wouldn’t_ hurt after a day like yesterday and a dream like that? It definitely wasn’t worth telling Snape about. The dour man would probably just cross his arms and ask Harry why the hell he was telling him about something so obviously trivial.

Snape had said the pain in Harry’s scar was a sign that the connection between himself and Voldemort was active. He knew what _that_ felt like. It was nearly unbearable, and this just wasn’t the same. No, it was just a regular run-of-the-mill nightmare.

Harry shivered, thinking of the way Lucius’ grinning mouth had grown and grown and grown…

Suddenly the bedroom felt too small. He needed some air.

Harry quickly dressed and grabbed his wand before tip-toeing into the hallway. Snape was nowhere to be seen and the house was silent. Maybe he was more of a night-owl than an early-bird?

Standing in the middle of the sitting room, Harry realized he wasn’t sure where to go. At Hogwarts, when he needed some space, he could wander the seemingly endless castle corridors. He could walk along the lake or the rolling grassy hills on the Hogwarts grounds. He could even head down to the Quidditch pitch and fly, the rushing wind in his ears drowning out his thoughts.

But here at the cottage, Snape had made it very clear that Harry wasn’t to leave the property. Excluding the study and Snape’s private room, that left the sitting room, the kitchen, and the small front garden… not exactly enough space to take a walk. If he tried, he’d probably pace a hole in the floor. But he was too restless to sit still, and even the airy front room with its wide bay windows felt too constricting.

Moving as quietly as possible, Harry eased the front door open and stepped onto the porch. It was surprisingly chilly; he supposed being by the ocean had something to do with it. Back in Little Whinging, it was usually cloying warm even by this early hour. But here by the sea, the whole garden sparkled with dew, and a low fog had settled over the surrounding meadow.

There was a swinging bench on the porch, and Harry dropped into it. It gave one tired-sounding groan as Harry started it swinging with his foot, but he didn’t suppose it would be loud enough to wake the professor.

Gently rocking, listening to the soft sounds of the ocean, and breathing in the cool morning air, Harry could feel his mind slowly calm. 

The basilisk was long dead… It couldn’t hurt him anymore. At this point, more than 2 years later, it had probably rotted down to its bones. Lucius… well… Lucius had proven that he could hurt Harry, and he _was_ looking for him. Unless Voldemort had been so angry about him letting Harry get away that he’d actually killed him. As cheering as that thought was, it was unlikely. More likely, all of Voldemort’s ire had been directly squarely at Snape. But would the Death Eaters be able to find them _here_? It had to be safe, right?

The cottage didn’t feel as sturdy or well-fortified as Hogwarts, but if Dumbledore thought that this was the best place to be right now, then the magical protections must be sufficient. And if Snape was trusted to be Harry’s sole guardian… then he must be sufficient too.

And if the wards on the cottage and Snape’s defense _weren’t_ enough… then that’s what the Portkey was for.

Yet, if all of that was true, why did Harry still feel so uneasy?

Harry stayed on the porch, occasionally nudging the swing back into motion, for a long time. He stayed until the grey light brightened into dawn, and sunlight crested over the cottage. He stayed until the low fog began to burn away, revealing the blooming sea lavender and beachgrass that bordered the meadow. He stayed until the buzzing thoughts in his head settled to a dull drone, and his breaths no longer hitched in his chest.

Eventually, he became aware of noises inside the cottage. Snape must be awake, then. He hadn’t specified a start time for Harry’s schedule, and it was still extraordinarily early… Harry could afford to stay out here a little longer. Besides, out here was definitely better than in there. He wasn’t in any rush to head back in.

From what he could hear, it sounded like Snape was rustling around in the kitchen: Harry could hear the whistle of a kettle and, more faintly, the clinking of china. A few minutes later, there was a sharp knock from within the house. A pause, and then another, more insistent knock.

_Oh… Snape is probably knocking on my door. He must think I’m still asleep_.

With a groan, Harry rose to his feet. It was time to get started after all. Would Snape really want him awake this early _every_ day…?

Just as Harry reached for the front door, he could hear Snape’s marching footsteps approaching from the other side. Before he could turn the knob himself, the door was thrown open and Harry found himself bowled over by the professor, who was mid-shout and mid-stride. He collided with Snape’s chest, and the force was enough to knock him back on his rear.

“ **POTT--** _...There_ you are.”

He paused for only a second, hawk-like eyes scanning over Harry sprawled on the porch.

“What in Merlin’s name are you _doing_ out here?” Snape was recovering from his brief moment of surprise, and was quickly pivoting to fury. “Was I not _explicitly_ clear about staying within the cottage property? I’m well aware of your tendency to sneak about at Hogwarts-- past curfew and out of bounds-- but you will _not_ entertain the same reckless behaviors while you’re--”

“I didn’t leave!!” Harry bellowed, his own anger flaring. “I was just sitting on the porch-- or is that not allowed?! And I didn’t _sneak!_ I was _trying_ not to wake you up when I came out here, but if you’d rather I stomp around next time, I’m happy to oblige!!”

They stared at each other in mutual outrage, Snape’s thin lips curling.

“Sitting on the porch,” Snape ground out, “is permitted. _However_ , next time you intend to deviate from your schedule, you will request permission first.”

“Didn’t know my schedule started at the ass-crack of _dawn_ ,” Harry mumbled grouchily.

“What was that, Potter?”

“Nothing, _sir_ ,” Harry responded, pulling himself to his feet and dusting off his pants.

Snape narrowed his eyes; Harry was entirely certain the man had heard him the first time. 

“Come along, then,” he huffed, gesturing back inside. “You’ve a lot to do today.”

Harry followed Snape back into the kitchen where tea had, indeed, been prepared. As he moodily dropped himself into one of the chairs, Snape slid a piece of parchment towards him. On it, in Snape’s tight, spidery handwriting, was a detailed itinerary.

  * _07:30_ _Breakfast & Medical Evaluation _
  * _08:00_ _Occlumency Reading: Chapters 1-5 of “Mental Magicks” by Leonard_ _Zograf_
  * _10:00_ _Occlumency Practice: Meditation exercises as described in Chapter 5 of_ _“Mental Magicks”_
  * _11:30_ _Lunch_
  * _12:00_ _Research for Herbology essay on the life cycle of Mandrakes_



It went on and on: there were several more hours set aside for various readings and practices related to Occlumency, time scheduled for his Hogwarts summer homework, and (in what was surely a tremendous act of leniency) there were 15 whole minutes designated for ‘leisure time’ in the evening. From the look of it, Harry’s every waking moment was accounted for, from walking til sleeping. He stared at the schedule in disbelief. How was he supposed to accomplish all of this in _one day?!_ He’d lose his mind by lunchtime!

One task, late in the day, caught his attention. Unusually vague, it only said: ‘ _Letter writing_ ’.

“Professor,” Harry asked, trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice, “Uh… What’s this bit about ‘letter writing’? Who am I writing to?”

“You will be writing an apology letter to your relatives,” Snape answered calmly.

“A **WHAT?** ” Harry’s hands involuntarily clenched, crumpling the edges of the schedule. His whole body trembled with suppressed rage. An _apology_ letter? To the _Dursleys_?!

“Yes, Potter, an _apology!_ ” Snape set down his teacup a bit too firmly and the tea sloshed dangerously. “If it weren’t for the fact that Privet Drive is still incredibly dangerous to approach, I’d drag you there myself so you could apologize properly in person. But since that is not an option, you will have to scrounge together your regrets in written form. You **will** apologize--” Snape raised his voice, speaking over Harry, who was so overwhelmed he could hardly do more than sputter incoherently anyway, “and you will **beg** their forgiveness! In case you’ve forgotten, you still have _two more years_ til you come of age, Potter! Two more summers in which your only chance at survival is to stay with your relatives! You still don’t realize what a mess you’ve caused, do you? This cottage is only a temporary solution, and you _must_ return to Privet Drive. Do you understand me? You will do _everything_ in your power to convince them to permit your return next year. I don’t care _what_ you have to say or _what_ you have to promise-- make it work!”

Harry’s vision blurred, and he was mortified to find himself blinking away tears. After all this… he’d still have to go back. _He_ had to apologize to _them_ , and then, after everything they’d done and said, Dumbledore was still going to send him back. 

But what had he expected, really? Did he really think Dumbledore and the others didn’t already know what it was like there? His first Hogwarts letter had been addressed to _The Cupboard Under the Stairs_ … The Weasley brothers had seen the bars on his windows in second year. Just last summer, when Mr. Weasley had picked him up for the Quidditch World Cup, he’d noticed the way his aunt and uncle didn’t even bother to say goodbye.

They all _knew_ how the Dursleys treated him… And they had simply made the calculation that it was a necessary sacrifice. Harry’s emotional well-being clearly didn’t matter nearly as much as his physical well-being. So maybe Vernon would get a stern warning… ‘Please don’t actually _kill_ the boy, good sir-- Just return him alive at the end of the summer! Cheerio!’... But they were going to take him back there, to that hell. 

Harry hadn’t escaped after all… he’d just gotten himself a brief reprieve, and when he returned, it would be worse than ever before.

It had all been for nothing, and it had cost Snape and the side of Light so much.

At this realization, fury gave way to resignation and defeat. Harry let his head fall forward onto the table, hiding his shameful tears, the schedule still clenched in his fists.

“...Yes, sir,” Harry whispered. 

“...Don’t mumble into the table, Potter. Sit up properly and look at me when you speak,” Snape replied, but his tone had lost all its venom. It sounded thin. 

He was probably embarrassed to see a boy of Harry’s age having such a meltdown over a simple letter to his family. Harry didn’t care. He’d never cared what Snape thought of him, and he wasn’t going to start now.

Harry slowly lifted his head and looked at Snape with red-rimmed eyes. The man’s arms were crossed and his expression was inscrutable.

“The schedule says it's time for breakfast and medical evaluations now, sir,” Harry said flatly. He couldn’t talk about the letter anymore. He didn’t even want to think about it. At least his day promised to be so absurdly busy, he wasn’t likely to have time to dread it. Best to drive straight in so he could take his mind off the churning, heavy feeling in his stomach.

Snape sighed, seemingly willing to ignore Harry’s melodrama if it meant he was compliant. He approached Harry, wand raised, and began muttering a spell; Harry recognized it as the same diagnostic spell from yesterday morning.

The report scroll appeared in the air (it appeared to be much shorter this time), and Snape read it quickly. He had taken on the same crisp, detached persona as he had before.

“Your nerves and bones seem to have recovered well enough,” he announced. “They will finish healing on their own without the need for any further potions. Another application of the bruise balm will be necessary-- that can wait until lunchtime.”

Harry grimaced, but Snape either didn’t notice or chose to ignore it.

“Additionally,” he continued, “I will prepare another dose of the throat restorative. There is still significant internal damage beyond the visible bruising.”

Snape released the scroll, which vanished, and he regarded Harry with a strange look of disgust. It took Harry a moment to realize the man was looking at his neck, and the emotion didn’t actually seem to be directed at _him._

“That Macnair is a vicious one,” Snape muttered. “He’s always been rather _eager_ when it comes to harming others.”

_Oh…_

Harry brought a hand to rub at his neck, suddenly self-conscious. Snape assumed that _Macnair_ had done this to him… Of _course_ he’d think that, what with the scene he’d stumbled into. Nearly everything else had been the Death Eaters’ doing. Well, some of the older bruises were probably from Vernon too, especially the ones on his upper arms, where his uncle had so frequently grabbed him and shoved him.

But it didn’t matter, really. No matter their source, Snape was bound to heal them, and no matter Harry’s protests, he’d still have to write the letter apologizing to the man who’d actually left them. So he just shrugged noncommittally.

Snape shook his head, as if clearing away bothersome thoughts, and regarded Harry sternly.

“You will find a copy of ‘Mental Magicks’ in the sitting room. You will complete your readings and Occlumency exercises _quietly._ I will be in the study and I do _not_ want to be disturbed unless you are dying, your scar is hurting, or Death Eaters are on the doorstep. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Snape nodded once, satisfied. Almost absent-mindedly, he flicked his wand towards the kitchen’s refrigerator. Eggs, a few rashers of bacon, and other breakfast ingredients began levitating towards the stovetop, where the enchanted frying pan gleefully hopped to attention. The process of breakfast now quite literally set in motion, Snape retrieved his teacup and departed for the study.

“Do not neglect your schedule, Potter,” he called.

“ _Yes, sir,_ ” Harry said again, a bit less politely this time. 

He wondered, bitterly, if Snape would be this irritable and aloof if he were tutoring _Draco_ all summer. Back at Hogwarts, he wasn’t shy about favoring him. Whether he was flagrantly disobeying rules, or being cheeky with professors, or intentionally sabotaging other students, Snape seemed to only have approving smirks for the little weasel. But, Harry thought with a shudder, at least he wasn’t treated as poorly as _Neville._ If Snape had come across Neville in an alleyway, tortured by Death Eaters, he’d probably give them an encouraging clap on the back.

Was any of the blind Slytherin favoritism a necessary act, part of his double-agent role? With so many Death Eaters’ children in Slytherin, maybe Snape _had_ to treat them all like royalty. Or… maybe he was just a mean, nasty old git.

When Harry’s breakfast was cooked, eaten, and tidied, he headed into the sitting room. According to the clock on the mantelpiece, it was just past 8 o’clock. Right on schedule.

There was a worn, thickly-bound book propped up in the armchair: ‘Mental Magicks’ by Leonard Zograf. He picked it up and thumbed idly through the pages. It was a strange change of tact… Snape had initially thrown Harry head-first into fending off actual Legilimens attacks with no preparation whatsoever, and _now_ he was giving Harry what appeared to be an academic book on theory? It seemed a bit backwards to Harry, but maybe after the total disaster of yesterday’s lesson, Snape didn’t want to waste his time until Harry had some fundamentals down.

He turned to the first page of chapter one. Ten minutes later, he was still reading and re-reading the same few paragraphs, and understood absolutely none of it. The writing was incredibly dense… If Hermione were here, _she_ would probably understand it and could help explain it to Harry. If Ron were here, Harry thought with a chuckle, he’d have chucked the book out the window and given up by now.

In all his years at Hogwarts, no matter the subject, reading had never been Harry’s strong suit. Hermione seemed to read as easily and effortlessly as other people might breathe (as evidenced by the fact that she’d practically memorized the contents of ‘Hogwarts: A History’), but for Harry, it felt like wading through a swamp. It was better when he, Ron, and Hermione were all doing their homework together… He could ask Hermione questions about all the confusing bits, or if she was too busy or too stubborn to help, he could at least commiserate with Ron about their mutual bewilderment.

He’d missed their company since the moment he’d departed King’s Cross Station, but he felt an unusually strong pang of loneliness as he sat staring at the open pages of ‘Mental Magicks’. He’d have to tackle these confusing, miserable, awful weeks completely alone, without even their letters to keep him company. The thought of all those days stretching out before him made him want to give up on the spot.

But Harry _couldn’t_ give up… He _had_ to learn Occlumency, not only for his own safety and that of ‘The Order’ (whatever that was), but also because it was his ticket to seeing his friends again. And he’d be damned if some barmy old codger who used 5-syllable words got in his way.

Brow furrowing in concentration, Harry redoubled his focus and slowly clawed his way through chapter one, then chapter two, then chapter three…

Mr. Zograf had an awful lot to say about the mind, but he hadn’t really gotten to Occlumency itself yet. So far, all he’d done was discuss the influence of emotions over the mind, the importance of having a strong sense of self, and a bunch of other mumbo-jumbo that sounded like Muggle psychology, not _magic._

Harry flipped forward to glance at the next few chapters, hoping for some hint of how this connected to what he was actually supposed to be learning. He found the meditation exercises Snape had assigned him, but they didn’t really seem magical either. It was just stuff about ‘calming the mind and grounding the senses’, and some visualization exercises.

He double-checked the cover, confused. This _was_ the right book…

Whatever. It sounded a bit like nonsense Professor Trelawney would say, but if this is what Snape wanted him to do, he’d give it a try.

He didn’t bother to actually read the other chapters, and skipped straight to the activities. It was already nearly 10:30, and he was getting nowhere by slogging through the reading. Maybe if he just tried the meditation exercises, it would make more sense and he’d have something to show for the morning’s efforts.

Closing his eyes and settling back against the chair, Harry followed the instructions from the first exercise in the book. It was meant to help him ‘attune to the mind’s energies’ or something. He had no idea what that was supposed to mean.

As he slowed his breathing and gradually tuned out the sensations around him-- the murmur of the waves, the itch on the side of his nose, the lingering smell of breakfast-- he _did_ feel as though he were drifting further from his body and deeper into his mind. His thoughts felt looser and more fluid, somehow all-encompassing without being overwhelming. It was calm, even peaceful. If _this_ was Occlumency, Harry wouldn’t mind studying it every day.

Coherent thoughts were slowly replaced by woolly ruminations, and then even hazier abstractions that were hardly thoughts at all.

Thirty minutes later, Harry was slumped against the chair, fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, to my readers! I'm so happy that you're enjoying my story!  
> Things are getting busy in real life, so I may not be able to keep up with the pace of 1 chapter every week, but I'll keep chugging along and telling this story at whatever pace I can! <3


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